


Shattered Bones

by Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r



Series: The Mortal Part of Us [1]
Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Robert Lightwood's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 07:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 51,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15636222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r/pseuds/Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r
Summary: Jessamine Grace was definitely not a Shadowhunter. Nope, she was definitely a human. …With red eyes and orange hair. But when her past creeps up on her in a bar she might just have to face off against her demons, both the tangible ones and the ones that will always hide inside of us. From there, she'll deal with things she'd rather not face, the difficulties of not wanting to voice a word and the frustration of having two brothers again.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Quotev, but I decided to post it here as well. The writing is a little cringy to read (for me, at least) so I think I'm probably going to go back and rewrite parts. Thanks for reading! :)

       My name is Jessamine Grace.

       I have a fraternal twin by the name of Jakson Spencer, who's eight and a half seconds older than me.

       At barely five hours of age, my mother died as she held me in her arms.

       I still remember the feeling—it’s vivid, but at the same time it’s a blur of motion and sensation. It was the feeling of the life and warmth of a woman alive drain away, turning her into a lifeless rag doll.

       My mother's arms had slackened, and only thanks to a fast-reacting nurse was I able to avoid a sudden meeting with the tiled floor. 

 

       When I was five, my alcoholic druggie asshole of a dad, who, on his best days, forgot to feed Jak and me, committed suicide.

       Eight days before that, he'd beaten the living shit out of me—that and my will to speak, that is.

       He'd probably killed himself because of the bill that the hospital had sent for the checkup.

       As my dad slit his wrists with a kitchen knife, I was pinned underneath a table, beaten senseless yet again. 

 

       Jak and I were sent to live with a distant relative by the name of Michael Wayland.

       He had a single son named Jonathan, with golden hair and pretty blue eyes like clear Australian water, the color of the ocean I'd grown up beside.

       Wayland was like my original dad: gruff, cruel and demanding, with a fondness of speaking with his fists.

       Wayland revealed to Jak and me the Shadow World. This horrible, beautiful world full of magic, demons and danger.

 

       The two of us trained alongside Jonathan, and even if, according to Wayland, we were simple mundanes, we had the grace and strength of a Nephilim.

       Jonathan was one of the two people I spoke to at the time. 

 

       When I was eight, my plain, jet-black hair turned lighter, giving way to a flaming head of orange, the color of the sun.

       When I was eight, my amber eyes melted into a bright red, the color of freshly spilt blood.

       The day after the orange and red overtook my hair and eyes respectively, two massive, gaping wounds appeared on my back, running from the top of my shoulder blades to the bottom of them. 

 

       Four months after that, there were three different scars on my body.

  * The innocent ones I acquired from training or from sheer clumsiness
  * The two freshly healed ones that stretch along the length of my shoulder blades
  * And the ones inflicted by Michael Wayland himself



       The scars on my back were ripped open again and again before they fully healed. Sometimes it was from training, sometimes it was my fault, because I deserved the pain.

        All I knew was that every movement became agony and every moment of rest equally so. 

 

       When I turned nine, Michael Wayland was murdered by the Circle. Jonathan and I stayed tucked away underneath the staircase, watching the horror unfold.

       Jak remained sleeping upstairs, because the bastard always was a heavy sleeper.

A Ravener demon ate the remains of the corpse and left, which was when Jonathan and I ran to wake Jak. 

       24 hours after the Event, Clave officials came to the Wayland Manor, separated Jonathan, Jak and me, hauled us all the way to New York and carted my twin and me to the Silent Brothers.

       What happened next follows. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       Jak and I were running, leaving a trail of confusion and mundanes in our wake.

We'd run from the Shadowhunters, who'd taken us to the Silent Brothers, because as soon as we'd pulled up, we'd realized that we were still technically mundanes, with knowledge of the Shadow World.

       Considering that Wayland had kinda raised us differently than normal Shadowhunter children, we'd most likely be getting our memories wiped in order for the Clave to raise us as 'proper' Shadowhunters.

       Jak had kicked one of them in the balls, I'd gotten a few nice hits in with my fists and pilfered seraph blade alike, but in the end we'd taken off, heading to Brooklyn.

       The reason we'd headed into Brooklyn was because it was infested with all types of Downworlders apart from demons, which made it the ideal place to hide from Shadowhunters.

       I'm out of breath as I wheel around and grab Jak by the arm, yanking him into an alleyway off to the right of a fancy-looking set of apartments with multicolored lights flickering behind drawn shades. The Shadowhunters' footsteps draw nearer, and Jak and I wait with bated breath. A door opens, light and pop music spilling out of the doorway.

       "Nephilim," I hear a voice drawl. "How… charming it is to meet you. I was hoping I'd never see the likes of you again."

       "Warlock," a deep voice acknowledges. "We come here seeking two young children, not trouble." A snort comes from the warlock that the Shadowhunters are speaking to.

       "Tell me that as you run through my neighborhood, disturbing the party business in here and yell about little children. As if I care about your children. You can look for them later, when I'm not trying to have a nice party. Now shoo, or you're all going to be vermin in the next ten seconds."

       "Warlock—"

       It takes a split second for three things to happen.

       1) The easily recognizable noise of a snap that echoes off of the warehouse and apartment walls.

       2) A flash of blue light.

       3) A squeal from one of the Shadowhunters before they turn into a rat.

       "I said to go away," the warlock says with steel. "That was a warning. The spell wears off in 30 seconds. By then I want you gone. Your 30 seconds starts now." The Shadowhunters grumble in dissent, but scoop up their comrade before sprinting back the way they came. 

       My death grip on Jak's arm loosens a bit, and there's a moment of deathly silence, save for the crappy pop music pouring out of the still-open door of the warlocks house.

       "You can come out from behind that dumpster now," the warlock suddenly says, shattering the silence. I pale, and it's Jak's turn to give a death grip as his hand encircles my wrist. I try not to hiss as he puts pressure on the fresher bruises from Wayland.

       Running won't do us any good; warlocks would be on you before you'd even made it a meter. Jak and I couldn't fight the warlock, so, with nothing left to do, I slip out from behind the dumpster, dragging Jak along with me.

       The weight of my seraph blade, Jehoel, is heavy against my back.

       A single grunt is all we get from the warlock standing in the shadows of his doorway.

       "Now I know why they said children. You are kids. What the hell are you two doing, running around Brooklyn at this time? And away from your own kind, might I add." I scowl.

       "We're kinda running for our lives here," Jak snaps. "Thanks for your help, but we gotta go before they come back 'round and check again." My silver and black haired twin tugs on my hand, and I back away obligingly.

       The warlock moves from the shadows of his doorway, and I take a bigger step back as I realize who, exactly, this warlock is.

       Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, looks down at us from his front step thoughtfully, glitter encrusting his eyelids, hair and clothes.

       "You know, you two look like nice kids," the warlock says. "Let me clear out the party and you can come in to talk for a while?" He turns, sticking his head into his apartment. "PARTY'S OVER!" he bellows. “EVERYBODY OUT!” It's almost like a switch is flipped. The music grinds to a nasty, screeching halt and the chatter of the part dies down almost immediately.

       Then the noise inceases tenfold as people flood out of the apartment.

       I don't know why, but Jak and I remain rooted in place. This would've been the perfect time to flee the warlock, but something told me that this was all going to be fine. Nothing bad was going to happen if we stayed.

       "Offering really was just a courtesy," Bane says as the last person runs out. "In. I don't want the Shadowhunters seeing you after I denied your existence." Jak rubs soothing circles on the the back of my hand as he pulls me forwards. I comply reluctantly and we step up Magnus Bane's front steps, into his apartment. The door clicks closed behind us, and then Magnus places a hand on my back. I shudder before jerking away violently, moving away from the contact and to Jak.

       My twin hugs me tightly, understanding, as the warlock inspects the two of us critically. Finally, Bane snaps his fingers and gestures for Jak and me to follow him down the hallway. The warlock leads us into a kitchen, where three steaming mugs are already set up on the center island.

       Bane sits down, gesturing for us to do the same. I sit down gingerly, balancing on the very edge of my stool. Quick as a whip, I snatch one of the mugs and peer inside, somehow managing to keep all of the hot liquid inside.

       My eyes widen at the sight of the hot chocolate before I bring the cup up to my lips, taking a long drink from it. Jak does the same once he realizes what it is, draining his cup faster since the heat doesn't bother him at all. Bane, who sits across the table from us, laughs softly.

       My attention is on him now.

       "What are you going to do with us?" Jak asks. The warlock shrugs. 

       "I don't know. You're here, so I suppose you can stay if you want. You'll have to do chores and stuff, but I will give you money here and there.” Jak squeezes my hand under the table, eyes shining.

       "You mean it?" Jak asks. A glittery nod in response. "We'll stay. For now." I nod silently in agreement.

       "Alright, then," the warlock says, clapping his hands. "I'll get some rooms set up." Another finger snap, and I suspect that he just did. "Come, midgets," he says grandly, sweeping out of the kitchen. I shrug, following the magic-wielder.

The room that Bane has set up for me is simple. The bedsheets are dark blue, there's a desk in one corner, a dresser in another. There's a bookshelf and a side table, but other than that the room is bare.

       Jak's room is similar to mine, except there's dark green in place of blue.

       Bane smiles at our amazement, and with a final satisfied nod he sweeps off to do... Whatever warlocks do at one in the morning.

       As soon as the warlock leaves, I curl up on Jak's bed, my legs tired from running the hectic marathon earlier.

       "Tired?" Jak asks with a teasing grin. I bat a hand in his general direction, face buried in the duvet, before I turn my head to look at him. 

       Jak shrugs, a smug grin on his face.

       "Go t' sleep," he grumbles. I oblige, turning onto my side and curling up like a cat.

       Soft footsteps on the carpet, coming towards me, and then Jak shoves me over to make room for himself.

       "Idiot," he mutters, settling down behind me, molding himself to my form. "G'night," he adds, chin resting on my head.

       “Night,” I mumble in a barely-audible whisper. We fall asleep like that. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       The trust between Bane, Jak and me develops slowly, starting with small things.

       We observe each other passively; by now, the magic-wielder has discovered that I'm not ignoring him and am, in fact, mute and a total coffee addict.

I notice that Bane has a strange glitter fetish and a love for horrendous yet fashionable clothing.

       All of us learn each other's quirks and habits until, eventually, after seven years, it forms into the familial bond that runs between us now, and my willingness to speak in front of the warlock as well as Jak. 

       Running from those Shadowhunters had been the best thing that happened to Jak and me in a lifetime.


	2. Chapter 2

       "I'll have a beer, honey," a biker guy with way too many tattoos says, leaning against the bar.

       I give the dipshit a withering glare, followed by a middle finger, and the guy backs off quickly enough. Honestly, what the fuck was he thinking?

       I don't really get what they're looking at, though. As some would say, I have a distinct lack of rack, am below average height for my age by about four inches, scars and cuts litter my body like freckles, have shoulder-length hair that's glamoured brown, amber contacts over my red eyes and a small nose. No matter what others might say, I'm not much of a looker.

       I look past the crowd, at the opposite wall, and what I see makes my blood run cold.

       A gorgeous Nephilim girl smiles seductively at a glamoured demon near a storage room.

I analyze her position and stance quickly. Leaning towards the storage room slightly, probably going to lure the demon in there. Unprotected on her left and behind, so she's probably with two or more Shadowhunters.

       I give girl herself a quick once-over.

       Kind of short, pretty, with midnight black hair that's spilling to one side of her face, pale, but slightly tanned, skin, cherry red lips, dark brown-gold eyes, slender eyebrows. I don't let the pretty, vapid girl look fool me—I see right past the intended front and drop my eyes, spotting the telltale silver gleam of an electrum whip wrapped around her wrist.

       I curse mentally, dropping my rag and signaling to Jak. He nods, and I slip out from the behind the bar, slipping my deck of cards out from its place on my hip.

       The cards are more of a safety measure than a necessity at the club; Downworlders come here, sure, but they usually don't cause a mess. Demons are rare, and I always keep an eye on them.

       The cards are made with _adamas_ metal, the type of metal used to make seraph blades. They're easier, and less conspicuous, to carry around than a sword. Even at a club like Pandemonium, a sword would definitely be out of place.

 

       I weave through the writhing crowd easily, eyes trained on the girl and the demon, who have just entered the storage room. I slow, hanging right at the edge of the crowd, watching.

       Sure enough, two boys break away from the crowd, heading for the door and catch it before it closes, slipping inside.

       With a speed that no human could match, I dart forwards, out of the crowd, catching the door as it closes and slipping inside within a split second. None of the Shadowhunters notice me, too engrossed in the hunt to notice the slip of a girl hiding in the shadows, watching the hunt unfold with a practiced patience.

       The hunt unfolds before my eyes; the demon turns, ready to kiss the Nephilim girl, she smiles, leaning in—and then it notices the whip on her wrist.

       "You—" 

       The girl lunges, punching it in the chest; her whip is out, snagging the demon around the ankles and pulling it down; finally, the boys approach, binding the demon to a nearby pillar with practiced ease.

       I sigh. Probably time for me to stop them before they kill the demon.

       I step out of the shadows, rapping on the wall loudly.

       Everyone looks at me, confused, including the demon, who's still bound and snarling.

       I glare at them all, meeting their gazes challengingly. A tingle near my sternum reminds me that my speak in tongues rune is active. 

        _What Shadowhunters_ [a mixture of ‘shadow’ and ‘hunt’]  _no get no permission? Sign says no A-D-M-I-T-T-A-N-C-E. Shadow World too_ , I sign with exasperation. The demon snarls, my ASL words apparently translating into its head as well, and I roll my eyes. _No_ _kill here,_ I sign. _Big mess. No want explain._ The Shadowhunters seem to come out of their daze at my most recent sign.

       "That doesn't matter," a blonde boy says haughtily. "What a Downworlder like you has business interfering with Shadowhunter business is, I think, the real question." I glare at him, eyeing him and his other male companion.

       Second-shortest of the lot, blonde-haired, blue eyes and a solid build, two seraph blade hilts poking over his shoulder. A part of me twinges with sadness, remembering a certain boy who used to be like my brother. I shake the thought off quickly, though.

       His other companion, the boy, is easily the girl's’ sister, with the same black hair and skin color. However, he has blue eyes and is easily the tallest of the lot, at least a few inches on the blonde. Dragging my eyes away from them, I reach for my cards in a fluid move, fanning them out and showing them to the Shadowhunters.

        _Not Downworlder_ [‘down’ and ‘world’, along with the sign for ‘person’]  _any more than you,_ I sign in irritation, tucking the cards in between two fingers and using both of my hands to sign. I then point my finger emphatically at the door, a clear gesture of out.

The blonde Shadowhunter approaches me, and I shift my weight onto my left leg, dropping into a slight crouch and fan out five more cards. The boys eyes are glued to my hands, but there's something darker in his eyes.

       "She does have a point," he says. "What kind of Downworlder would carry around _adamas_ playing cards?" I roll my eyes. The girl leans forwards to look at me closer.

       "If you're not a Downworlder, then what are you? You've got some sort of glamour on you, probably a warlocks." I give her a reproachful, withering glare.

        _No Angel damn idea._ The girl's eyes widen in surprise.

       "She even swears like us," she mutters to herself, gaze flitting to the boy whom I assume is her brother.

       "Isabelle," the boy says warningly. The girl, Isabelle, shrugs.

       "Look," the blonde starts. "Alec, Isabelle—" 

       The storage room door opens and closes, and I whip around, hands on my hips and cards in a deck clutched in my left hand.

       And freeze at the sight of Clary Fray standing in front of me.

       The redhead makes all of my thoughts stop, right before flashing back to when I’d first met her. The two of us go way back, about to the time we were both twelve, four years ago. Clary's mother had taken her to see Magnus for a memory block. We'd talked a bit (well, she'd talked, I'd written on a piece of paper), but the next time I saw her she didn't remember me.

       Magnus had to explain in full length the effects, causes and process of a memory block. From then on, I'd stayed away from Clarissa Fray and kept to myself, only interacting if necessary. I always seem to learn the hard way that a lot of people will always disappoint you in the end.

       However, during the past year I'd opened up a lot more. Jak managed to drag me to a party once, and Mags convinced me to work at Pandemonium for a few nights a week. I thought that this would be a nice, calm job.

       I definitely didn't expect to be staring into Clary's piercing green eyes tonight.

       Realizing how badly I'd fucked up, I bite my lip and shift my gaze to the blonde boy beside me. He's tense, eyes trained on Clary, all attention diverted from me.

       “How can you see us?” he demands.

       “Of course I can see you!" Clary says indignantly. “I have eyes, and I'm not blind either. Why were you going to kill that boy?”

       “It's not a boy,” the blonde drawls. “It's a demon, religiously defined as hell’s denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purposes of the Clave—”

       “By the Angel, what are you doing!" the black-haired boy, presumably Alec, interrupts.

       "I'm defining a demon," the blonde replies innocently.

       "To a mundane," the black-haired one says hotly. "Do you have any idea—"

       I scowl, face contorting in anger.

        _Do_ , I sign angrily. _I_   _am one._ A pause. _Sort of._ _Now she see, life different. Unless someone prepare, die. Angel help me, prepare her._  

       "You're crazy," Clary says, breaking the lingering silence, both ASL and vocal. I'm shocked myself. "I've called the police, you know. They'll be here any second." I tip my head.

        _Lying_.

       "Are you sure—"

       Alec is interrupted by the demon breaking free of his bonds and lunging at him.

       Without a thought, I dart forwards, pushing him out of the way and roll under the demons slashing claws. I manage to avoid most of them, but one of them catches me on the arm.

       As soon as I'm upright again, I palm two cards off of my deck, rolling to avoid snapping teeth. **Michael, Cassiel** , I think quickly, releasing the cards in quick succession. They both hit their intended mark, one embedding itself in the demon's heart and the other striking its throat.

       I dart over quickly, evading snapping teeth and slashing claws, to extract them, plucking them out neatly and cleaning them of the black blood that's oozing all over the storage room floor. 

       "So be it," the demon hisses. "The Forsaken will take you all." I swivel on heel, just in time to watch the demon dissolve. I frown, stomping my foot over the cold stone where the demon had been a moment before. **Motherfucking son of Lucifer—**

       Footsteps at the door, and I turn, to the sight of Clary being blocked by Isabelle.

       “You're all crazy," the petite redhead says desperately. "What do you think you are, vigilante killers? The police—”

       I cut her off with a grimace as I pull off my jacket.

       “The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body,” the blonde says as I pull a bit of bandage from my pocket and wrap it around the wound sloppily. I can have Jak clean it up later.

       “So, what do you want me to do with her?" Isabelle demands after a moment.

       “Let her go,” the blonde says, looking at me distractedly. Isabelle does so, visibly reluctant.

       “Maybe we should bring them back with us,” Alec suggests. “I bet Hodge would like to talk to them anyways.” I shake my head, knowing he's talking about both Clary and me.

        _Human_ [there’s no ASL for mundane, so human is what I use], I sign, looking at Clary pointedly. _Will come, but not because Law._

       "Clary?" a voice asks from the other side of the storage room door. The door begins to open, and I duck behind a crate with a mental curse. "Are you okay?" the same voice asks. "Why are you in here by yourself? What happened to the guys—you know, the ones with knives?" I raise an eyebrow as I listen.

       "I thought they went in here," Clary replies after a brief hesitation. "But I guess they didn't. I'm sorry. It was a mistake." Two pairs of footsteps receding from the storage room, and then the door closes. I get up from behind the crate, dusting myself off, but then I feel a hand close around my injured arm. I scowl, instinctively digging my nails into the hand, which loosens Alec's grip enough for me to tear myself free.

        _Hell? Come. Promise never break._ I turn to face the room. _Three days, then come. Any later, dead, or twin kidnap._ My signed words draw raised eyebrows and incredulous looks. I shrug, turning on heel and head towards the door.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       I stand outside the towering church, resisting the urge to run, because Shadowhunters are overbearing, annoying and pompous; I don't even want to deal with them, but a promise is a promise. There's a rustle, and then the blonde boy from a week ago appears.

       "What took you so long?" he demands. I shrug.

        _Argue, fist fight, keep in room_ , I sign matter-of-factly. A raised eyebrow and an exasperated head shake.

       "Look, I can't bring you into the Institute at the moment, so you're going to have to come with me."  I sigh.  **I don't have time for this.**

        _Name?_  He looks at me weirdly; a hint of sad touched with a bit of desperation and anger.

       "Jace. Jace Wayland." I choke on air, looking at him closer now.

       Blonde hair, blue eyes, the Wayland nose, the same smooth gait and his words sound so familiar now that I know who he is. How could I have been so stupid? I lived with this boy for six years, and I wasn't even able to recognize him, never mind the fact that he was grown up now. 

       I lift a shaking hand to cover my mouth, but then decide against it, instead flinging myself at him and into his arms, tears gathering in my eyes.

       “Angels above, Jonathan! We thought you were dead! Mag—”

       I cut myself off quickly and Jonathan—Jace, whatever—frowns at me in puzzlement.

       “What about Mag?” I shake my head, wiping my eyes furiously.

       “Nothing,” I say quickly. “You said you had somewhere to go?”


	3. Chapter 3

       That somewhere turned out to be Java Jones, my go-to coffee place and hangout. I vaguely recall that there’s some sort of poetry reading tonight, and sure enough, there’s a boy with the tips of his hair dyed pink onstage, a boy behind him who's beating on some sort of drum. Jace leads me over to a faded green sofa after glamouring the both of us, and I shiver from the cool air in the place. Jace notices and holds his arm out for me. I roll my eyes, but curl into him like we did when we were younger.

       For a while, we listen to the boy onstage wail about loins and some other horrible poetic shit. And then Jace breaks the comfortable silence by raising a hand to wave at someone. I follow his gaze and see Clary Fray—Fairchild, actually—sitting at a table with a bespectacled, brown-haired boy. Jace gets to his feet without warning, dislodging me, and I follow with a sigh. 

       Outside, the blonde slouches against the wall and takes out a Sensor, punching a few buttons on it. I roll my eyes and wait patiently.

       Behind me, I hear the sound of the coffee shop door opening and closing. Jace looks up, and I retreat to his side quickly.

       “Your friend’s poetry is terrible,” Jace finally says. Clary blinks.

       “What?”

       “I said his poetry is terrible,” Jace repeats. I nod emphatically, a small smile quirking the corner of my mouth.

        _Swallow dictionary_ , I sign.  _Vomit random word_. Jace vocalizes my opinion.

       “I don’t care about Eric’s poetry,” Clary says furiously. “I want to know why you’re following me.” I blink at the accusation.

       “Who said I was following you?” Jace asks.

        _No stalk_ , I add for myself. Jace vocalizes my input again.

       “Nice try,” Clary says stubbornly. I throw my hands up in the air with exasperation, then point to Jace emphatically. Clary nods in acknowledgement, understanding the message that I'm trying to send, then turns right back to Jace. “And you were eavesdropping, too. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just call the police?”

       “And tell them what?” Jace asks in a withering tone. “That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little girl, the police aren’t going to arrest someone they can’t see.” I promply slap the blonde upside the head.

        _Nice_ , I sign to him sternly.

       "I told you before, my name is not little girl," the redhead says through gritted teeth. "It's Clary." I take a moment to admire her spunk before Jace opens his fat mouth. 

       “I know," he says. "Pretty name. Like the herb, clary sage. In the old days people thought eating the seeds would let you see the Fair Folk. Did you know that?" I roll my eyes.

        _No useless fact_ , I chide.

       "I have no idea what you're talking about,” Clary says bluntly.

        _Thank you!_  I sign to her, even if she doesn’t know what I mean.

       "You don't know much, do you?" Jace asks with a hidden sort of lazy contempt. "You seem to be a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It's a conundrum."

       "What's a mundane?"

       "Someone of the human world. Someone like you."

       "But you're human," Clary says, looking at the both of us. I seesaw my hand a bit, gesturing at myself.

       “I am," Jace acknowledges. "But I'm not like you." 

       "You think you're better,” Clary says, anger tainting her words. “That's why you were laughing at us." I give Jace a look that clearly states that we’ll be having words later, and cuff him over the head.

       "I was laughing at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited," the blonde says. "And because your Simon is one of the most mundane mundanes I've ever encountered. And because Hodge thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don't know it."

       "I'm dangerous?" Clary echoes with astonishment. "I saw her kill someone last night. I saw her throw a—a  _playing card_ into his heart and head and—And I saw him slash at her with fingers like razor blades. I saw her cut and bleeding, and now she looks like nothing ever touched her." 

       "We may be killers," Jace says, "but we know who we are. Can you say the same?"

       "I'm an ordinary human being, just like you said!” Clary exclaims. I bite my lip guiltily, flashing back to all of the desperate conversations Magnus and Jocelyn had had over the course of my stay with the warlock. “Who's Hodge?" Clary queries, changing the subject quickly. I cock an eyebrow in agreement, looking at Jace with expectation.

       “My tutor,” Jace says tightly. I take that to mean “my pseudo demon-killer teacher.” “And I wouldn’t be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were you,” Jace adds as he leans forwards. “Let me see your right hand.”

       “My right hand?” Clary echoes faintly, surprised. The blonde nods. “If I show you my hand, will you leave me alone?” the redhead asks.

       “Certainly,” Jace says in a tone that clearly says 'no I won’t.' The redhead holds her right hand out grudgingly. It doesn’t look that special, taking on a pale appearance from the half light spilling from the windows, the knuckles are dotted with a light spatter of freckles. If I didn’t know what Jace was looking for, I’d simply dismiss it as a perfectly ordinary hand. My brother takes the smaller’s hand in his and turns it over.

       “Nothing,” Jace says, disappointed. “You’re not left-handed, are you?”

       “No. Why?” The blonde releases her hand with a shrug.

       “Most Shadowhunter children get Marked on their right hands—or left, if they’re left-handed like Jess and I am—when they’re still young. It’s a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons.” Jace gestures for me to hold my hand out, and I do.

       “I don’t see anything,” Clary says. 

       “Let your mind relax,” the blonde suggests. “Wait for it to come to you. Like waiting for something to rise to the surface of water."

       “You’re crazy,” Clary informs Jace. I give her a look of complete understanding, recalling the time that he’d attempted to do a quadruple backflip off of the doghouse. I turn back to Clary, watching her passively. It takes a moment, but then the redhead blinks in surprise. "A tattoo?" she asks, clearly confused. I smile as I lower my hand.

       “I thought you could do it,” Jace says. “And it’s not a tattoo—it’s a Mark. They’re rune, burned into our skin.”

       "They make you handle weapons better?" Clary questions, looking dubious. I pull a face, looking at Jace for vocalization. 

       "Different Marks do different things,” Jace explains. “Some are permanent but the majority vanish when they've been used."

       "That's why your arms aren't all inked up today?" she asks. "Even when I concentrate?"

       "That's exactly why,” Jace replies, sounding pleased with himself. I let out a sigh. If his ego gets any bigger, he’s not going to fit into that Institute of his, and I'd seen the size of the thing as I'd stood outside of it an hour earlier. "I knew you had the Sight, at least." He glances up at the sky. "It's nearly fully dark. We should go."

       "We?” Clary questions uncertainly. “I thought you were going to leave me alone."

       "I lied," Jace replies, straight-faced and guilt-free. "Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with me. He wants to talk to you. Both of you."

       "Why would he want to talk to us?” Clary asks, becoming more confused by the moment.

       "Because you know the truth now," Jace says. "There hasn't been a mundane who knew about us for at least a hundred years." He pauses, turning his gaze on me. “Do you count? I mean, you’ve been Marked and it stays, right?” I shrug.

        _Think so_ , I reply.

       "About us?" Clary interrupts. "You mean people like you. People who believe in demons." I seesaw my hand with a shrug again. It seems like I've been doing it a lot this conversation.

       "People who kill them," Jace corrects. "We're called Shadowhunters. At least, that's what we call ourselves. The Downworlders have less complimentary names for us."

       “Downworlders?"

       "The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magic folk of this dimension." Clary shakes her head in disbelief.

       "Don't stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and zombies?" 

       "Of course there are," Jace replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

        _Zombies_ [the signs for ‘dead’ and ‘walk’]  _farther south_ , I correct.

       "Although you mostly find zombies farther south, where the vodun priests are,” the blonde agrees.

       "What about mummies? Do they only hang around Egypt?" Clary asks sarcastically. There's a hint of disbelief in her tone too.

       "Don't be ridiculous,” Jace says, looking at Clary like she’s a lunatic. “No one believes in mummies."

       "They don't?"

       "Of course not," the blonde states. "Look, Hodge will explain all this to you when you see him." Clary crosses her arms over her chest.

       "What if I don't want to see him?"

       "That's your problem,” Jace says with a shrug. “You can come either willingly or unwillingly." Clary blinks.

       "Are you threatening to kidnap me?" she asks, incredulous.

       "If you want to look at it that way," Jace begins, "yes." I cuff him upside the head as Clary opens her mouth to protest. However, before I can go in for a second hit, a persistent buzzing noise interrupts us. I check my phone to make sure that it isn't Jak and Magnus calling me before realizing that it’s Clary’s phone.

       "Go ahead and answer that if you like," Jace says indifferently. The phone stops ringing, then starts up again, both times equally loud and persistent. Clary frowns and half-turns away from us, digging in her bag. By the time she dug the phone up, it was on its third set of rings. She puts it to her ear.

       "Mom?" A pause. "It's all right, Mom. I'm fine. I'm on my way home—" Another, longer pause in which Clary’s face turns white, draining of all color. "Mom!" Clary shouts into the phone. "Mom, are you alright?" Her eyes are wide as she listens. "Who's found you? Mom, did you call the police? Did you—"

       She stops all of a sudden, face eerily pale, like a vampire’s.

       "Mom!" Clary shrieks into the phone. "Mom, are you there?" She holds the phone in front of her, staring at the screen in astonishment, a touch of panic there as well.

       "Clary?” Jace asks quietly. "What's going on?" The redhead ignores him, choosing to hammer a button on her phone repeatedly. There's nothing but a double-tone busy signal. The redhead’s hands begin to shake violently, and when she goes to hit the button again, it slips out of her grasp. The whole thing seems to happen in slow-motion, but my arm snaps out with an unnatural speed, scooping the phone up just as the edge scrapes the ground. I hand it to Clary, who sobs. It drops out of her hands and this time I can't catch it.

       "Dammit!" she cries, sinking to her knees to pick the phone up only to throw it to the ground again.

       "Stop that," Jace commands, hauling her to her feet by her wrist. "Has something happened?" 

       "Give me your phone," Clary says, grabbing the Sensor. "I have to—"

       "It's not a phone," Jace says, making no move to get it back or to remove his hand from her wrist. "It's a Sensor. You won't be able to use it."

       "But I need to call the police!"

       "Tell me what happened first,” the blonde replies calmly. Clary tries to yank her wrist back, but Jace doesn't budge. "I can help you,” the blonde says, almost imploringly.

       Clary’s eyes narrow in anger, and her hand snaps out, nails raking across his cheek. Jace jerks back in surprise and the redhead chooses that moment to tear herself free of him and sprint away with his Sensor.

       “What was that?” Jace asks incredulously, putting his hand up to his face. It comes away with splatters of blood on it. I roll my eyes, grabbing his arm and drawing an Agony rune on his arm. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to kill him or anything.

       The thing about me is that whenever I Mark a person with an Aont rune, they heal instead. And whenever I Mark someone with an iratze, they fall to the ground in agony. Same goes for all other runes. True North will turn into True South, Winged will become Grounded, Protected will become Vulnerable, Fire will become Water and vice versa.  

       Don't know why, it was just how I worked. I'd accepted it a long time ago, so I ignore the weirded out stares and try not to draw runes in front of any other Shadowhunters. Not that that’s been much of an issue or anything. 

       “I know where she lives,” I inform Jace, turning on heel and hurrying down Seventh Street.


	4. Chapter 4

       We don't get there a moment too soon. A Ravener demon is crouched on the floor, all long and scaled with a cluster of flat black eyes dead center in the front of the demons skull. Overall, it looks like a cross between an alligator and a centipede with its thick, flat snout and barbed tail that whips around. Oh, and did I mention the multiple legs caging Clary in?

       It's beady eyes are fixed on a certain pint-sized, red-haired girl underneath it. As I watch, Clary’s arm swings free and smashes Jace’s Sensor into its face. She screams, and I dash into the room, pulling the Ravener demon off of the redhead. I give the denizen of Hell a middle finger and it lunges at me. I let it, holding my arms out like I need a hug, and then I'm rolling over on top of it, cards flashing as I utter their names in my mind.

        **Michael, Cassiel, Uriel, Gabriel.** The demon twitches and writhes as two cards are stuck through its brain and another two through its heart. I stumble back, withdrawing my cards from its body as it dissolves.

       “Jessa!” I hear Jace call. I smile as I look at the dissolving carcass of the demon.  **Take that you little motherfucker.** And then I fall to my knees. There's a thud, and then a familiar head of red hair falls to the ground by my knees. I wave absently to Clary's unconscious form, totally out of it as the Ravener demons venom begins to travel. A blonde head of hair is pushed into my field of vision, and my head snaps upright. I shake my head to clear the dizziness, scowling fiercely.

        **Fight it. Fight it. You can fight the poison, and when the night’s up it'll be gone. Fight it, damn it.** I draw in a shuddering breath, head clearing. 

       “I need you to help me get her inside,” Jace says, hands catching on the side of my face. “Can you do that?” I nod, standing up firmly, proud of the way that my legs don't shake. I bend down, dragging one half of Clary’s comatose form up, Jace doing the same on the other side at the exact same time. The three of us stumble out, and I spot the police. There's something strange about them, though. And then I see it. It's not much, just a glimmer of red light, but it's enough to tell me that those aren't cops—those are demons. 

       I drag Jace to the side, behind a cluster of rose bushes, setting Clary down gently. I rip off the bottom of my shirt quickly, turning the black shirt into an impromptu crop top. I wrinkle my nose at the sight, but hand it to Jace. He takes something out of his pocket and smears it over what used to be the bottom of my shirt. The high wailing of a police siren starts up and I shake my head as fogginess begins to invade it again. **The rest of the night. The rest of the night and it'll be gone** , I promise myself as I pinch my elbow in order to stay alert. Clary suddenly stirs, and then her eyes flutter open.

       "Don't move,” Jace commands immediately. Clary ignores him and turns her head to the side. She must've seen something, because she tries to sit up and gags, fingers spasming. I give her a reprimanding look and push her down firmly. "I told you not to move," Jace hisses. "That Ravener demon got you in the back of the neck. It was half-dead so it wasn't much of a sting, but we have to get you to the Institute. Hold still."

       "That thing—the monster—it talked,” Clary rasps out desperately, shuddering as she does.

       "You've heard a demon talk before,” Jace replies as he slips a strip of my former shirt underneath the redheads neck and ties it.

       "The demon in Pandemonium—it looked like a person,” Clary says. 

       "It was an Eidolon demon,” Jace replies tersely. “A shape-changer. Raveners look like they look. Not very attractive, but they're too stupid to care."

       "It said it was going to eat me."

       "But it didn't. You killed it,” Jace says, finishing the knot and sitting back. Jace must've put some sort of pain-relief salve on the cloth, because Clary manages to sit up without spasming or gagging.

       "The police are here,” the redhead says in a frog’s croak. "We should—"

       "There's nothing they can do,” Jace says sharply. “Somebody probably heard you screaming and reported it. Ten to one those aren't real police officers. Demons have a way of hiding their tracks."

       "My mom," Clary says, sounding like she had to force the words out of her throat.

       "There's Ravener poison coursing through your veins right now,” Jace says grimly. “You'll be dead in an hour if you don't come with me." He gets to his feet and holds a hand out for Clary. The petite girl takes it and he pulls her upright. "Come on." I frown and stumble upright, the pain in my shoulder and leg making themselves known loudly. Clary stumbles off to my right, and Jace steadies her. "Can you walk?" he asks the both of us. I nod firmly. 

       "I think so,” Clary murmurs. A blonde ‘policewoman’ starts up the path, a flashlight in one hand. As the woman raises it, I see that her hand is fleshless, skeletal fingers sharpened to points at the fingertips. "Her hand—"

       Clary gasps.

       "I told you they might be demons,” Jace says, glancing at the back of the house. "We have to get out of here. Can we go through the alley?" Clary shakes her head negative.

       "It's bricked up. There's no way—"

       Her words are lost in a fit of coughing. She raises her hand to cover her mouth and it comes away stained red. The girl whimpers. I grit my teeth. **Nowhere to go. Trapped. Thanks a lot Jace. This is why I should never trust you. Why did I even agree to do this in the first place?**

       “Hold her hand still,” Jace mutters to me. I do as he says and Jace whips out his stele, touching the tip to the pale flesh of Clary’s inner arm. She tries to pull away, but I cling on. After about five seconds, Jace finishes the symbol and steps back as I release her wrist. Clary inspects it cautiously.

       "What's that supposed to do?"

       “It'll hide you,” Jace replied. “Temporarily.” I snatch the blondes stele from his hands, Marking myself before Marking him. Jace spots Clary looking at the object. “My stele,” he says by way of explanation. Clary suddenly sways.

       “Jace,” she mutters, before falling right into him. The blonde catches her effortlessly, shifting some of her weight over to me. I quickly take it, balancing her on my bad shoulder with a mental string of curses as the redhead passes out on my shoulder.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       I shift slightly, shoulder partway numb, a cross between fiery pain from the weight in my shoulder and the numbness that it induces.

       “We're almost there,” Jace grunts. I stumble and glance down at my leg. Not a good idea. It's mottled green and yellow, pain coursing through it with every movement I make, blood from the sting wound seeping down my leg like a small waterfall. “We're here!” Jace suddenly announces grandly as we stop outside of a church. **Cock-sucking bastard.** I stick my tongue out at him as we walk up the Institute steps. The blonde knocks loudly on the doors, and they're opened almost immediately by a familiar person.

       “Jace?” Isabelle asks, shocked. “What—”

       I stomp my foot to get her attention, looking pointedly at the comatose redhead between my adoptive brother and me. Isabelle looks from me, to Jace, to Clary, then back at me again before she opens the door completely, giving us room to get inside. Jace and I then follow her into the abandoned church, where she leads us into an elevator. The elevator ride is silent and awkward, and when we step off, Isabelle is in motion, leading us down a few hallways and into a large room that I assume is the Infirmary, based on the medical-looking cots lined up in a row against one wall, cabinets on the other. 

       Jace and I set Clary down on the nearest cot gently, and Isabelle appears to tend to her. I grimace with every movement I make, limping over to an open cupboard with bandages since I'd used the last of mine today. I'm not worried about the Ravener venom in my system; by now, my mottled leg has returned to a yellow-tinted normal, and I know that it's going to be back to normal by the time morning swings around. I have to take my shirt off in order to re-wrap the bandages on my shoulder, leaving me in only my bra and black skinny jeans. 

       Jace draws in a sharp breath behind me, and then warm hands are tracing the two big scars on my back. I stiffen, turning to slap the blonde's hand away and glare at him.

       "Where did you get those?" the blonde asks quietly, piercing blue eyes searching my own. I shrug, gaze flitting over to Isabelle. Jace's eyes clear in understanding. "Oh. They're like Jak's burns?" I nod. Jace's gaze flits over the cuts, scrapes and old scars that litter my body with concern, running a hand through his hair. "Jess, I really would've stopped him if I could—" 

       I place a hand on Jace's chest and push him away from me, shaking my head fondly.

        _Not fault. You eight. Do nothing._ Jace shakes his head.

       “But—” I cuff him over the head in irritation.

        _All idiot_ , I sign in exasperation. _Fire_  [Jak’s sign name] _say same when Wayland_  [a bastard of the signs for ‘way’ and ‘land’] _die. Tell him idiot for want watch person die. Mad long time._ Jace smiles softly.

       “That sounds like you.” I nod, wrapping my shoulder and leg in bandages. Jace glances at my ripped black shirt. "Would you be opposed to borrowing someone's shirt?" he asks me. I shrug and shake my head. Jace turns to Isabelle, who's finished tending to Clary by now, and is washing her hands at the sink. "Hey, Iz, do you have any shirts that Jessa can borrow?" Isabelle looks slightly amused.

       "First name basis, eh, Jace? What's next? Sex?" I double over laughing, so hard that I have to sit down on the nearest cot. When I sober, Jace's horrified expression is enough to set me off again, clutching at my stomach and laughing uncontrollably. I throw Isabelle a thumbs up.

        _Brother_ , I sign, pointing at the blonde with a giggle. The black-haired Shadowhunter looks at me incredulously.

       “You,” she says, pointing a finger at me, “have a lot of explaining to do in the morning.” I frown.

        _Need to go home._ Isabelle raises an eyebrow.

       “Big deal. You’re staying here for the night.” With that, she sweeps out of the room grandly. I limp over to Clary's cot, sitting down beside her, looking at her sleeping face.

       “She looks so peaceful,” Jace comments. I nod. A few minutes later, Isabelle enters the Infirmary, holding a black shirt.

       “I didn’t feel like going through my drawers,” she says, handing the shirt to me, “so I went through Alec’s. This is one of his old ones, so it should fit you, even if it is a bit loose.” I nod, taking the shirt and slipping off my top and jacket and trading them for the shirt. Once I’ve gotten the shirt on, Isabelle regards me skeptically. “Where do you want to sleep?” she asks. I hesitate, looking at Jace. He nods, and I look back at Isabelle.

        _Angel_  [Jona—Jace’s sign name], I sign. Isabelle raises an eyebrow at that, but nods.

       “In that case, Jace can take you to his room. See you in the morning.” With that, she sweeps out of the room. Again, and even more pretentiously. I smile slightly.

       “I like her,” I comment. My blonde, adoptive brother nods distantly.

       “Yeah. We should probably get to bed, though,” he says. I nod.


	5. Chapter 5

       The next day, I wake up next to Jace. The blonde is curled around me protectively, and I smile softly, wriggling out of his embrace and tiptoeing out of the room, not bothering to change clothes since I went to sleep in the shirt from the night before, plus a pair of sweats from Jace that I have to pull tight with a hairband in order for them to stay on my hips and not slip any lower. Recalling the way to the kitchen from last night (Jace had taken me there for a snack) I ghost through the hallways until I get to my intended destination.

       Once there, I rifle through the fridge and grin in triumph as I pull out a loaf of precut bread, eggs, butter and bacon. Turning on the stove, I start cracking eggs and search through the cabinets for the plates. When I finally locate them, I start toasting the bread, humming a Fall Out Boy song. A quiet knock on wood alerts me to a certain blonde-haired brother's presence. I smile softly, turning and leaning against the counter.

       “Hi,” I murmur quietly in case someone comes in. Jace grins.

       “I see you haven't lost your talent for cooking,” he comments. I grin.

       “Wonders of Pinterest and cookbooks.” I pause. “Also hungry twins.” Jace walks completely into the room and sits down at the table in the center of the room. He opens his mouth to say something, but then a thin man with gray-streaked hair, a long beaky nose and a red scar shaped in a circle on his cheek, walks into the room.

       “Isabelle, what are you—”

       He spots me and frowns. “You aren't Isabelle,” he says. I raise an eyebrow, taking my stele out of my back pocket and Marking myself with a speak in tongues rune.

        _J-E-S-S-A_ , I introduce myself. _Angel sister._ The man's eyebrows make an attempt to become one with his hairline. I don’t know if it’s because of Jace’s sign name or because of my relation to Jace. 

       “Jace never mentioned any other relatives than his father,” he says suspiciously. Jace waves his hand.

       “No, this is Jessa. She's my adoptive sister. Naturally, I wouldn't have talked about a sister because I don't have one. I have an adoptive one.” I giggle, not taking the words to heart. The man just huffs, obviously used to Jace’s antics.

       “Well, then, Jessa, when did you arrive at the Institute?” I narrow my eyes at him.

        _Name?_ I question. The man's face tightens.

       “Hodge Starkweather, acting head of the New York Institute.” I bob my head in acknowledgment. His name, to me, is raven. 

        _Last night_ , I sign to Hodge. The old man frowns.

       “Can you speak?” I shake my head no, and the acting head scowls suspiciously.

       “What are you making?” Jace quickly interjects. To others, Jace sometimes seems like a self-absorbed idiot, but he's actually pretty observant and knows when to do something in a social situation. Like now, for example.

        _Egg, bread, bacon_ , I reply in ASL. _Almost ready_. Sure enough, as if in confirmation, the toaster dings and I pull the bread out quickly, buttering it nimbly and placing them on the plates. Originally, I'd only grabbed four plates, but seeing as I didn't know about Hodge, there's no plate for him. I hesitate a moment before deciding to give the older man my plate. Out of the two Lightwoods, Alec is the first to enter the room, still in his pajamas, which consist of a tank top and baggy sweats.

       “Izzy, don't bother cooking—”

       He pauses in the doorway. “Never mind, keep going,” he says at the sight of me in front of the stove. I glance behind me at Jace.

        _I-Z-Z-Y bad cook?_ I question. Everyone glances at each other before nodding in unison, even Hodge. I blink. _What live on?_ Alec shrugs.

       “Takeout or mom’s cooking when she's here,” the tall Shadowhunter replies. “Other than that, we try to keep Isabelle away from the kitchen as much as possible.” I nod in understanding, spooning the eggs onto the plates. Isabelle comes in just as I set the plates on the table, rubbing her eyes, yawning and clad in a pair of sweats and a tank top similar to her brother's. Now that I think of it, only Hodge is the one in proper clothing. Shrugging the thought aside, I beckon Isabelle over and perch on my seat next to Alec, watching the others eat. Jace glances at me before he picks up his silverware.

       “Aren't you hungry?” he asks me. I shake my head and he shrugs, picking up his fork and knife. 

       Jace’s sign name is angel, because he’s as good as one. On the outside, that is. On the inside, he’s just a normal boy. I should know. I grew up with him. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       I’m perched on the edge of the Institute roof, looking out over New York. It’s a multitude of sounds and color, a beautiful show to watch. A quiet footstep on the roof behind me.

       “Looks like you’ve found my secret hiding spot,” Alec says. I dip my head without turning to face him, taking my stele out and reactivate my ‘speak in tongues’ rune as the eldest Lightwood child sits down next to me.

        _Not secret any more,_ I sign. Alec’s head bobs in return.

       “Guess not.” A long pause. “Izzy says that you’re Jace’s sister. Is that true?” I hesitate a moment before nodding.

        _Long time. Distant family. No know if Shadowhunter, but can Mark_  [there’s no sign for Mark, so I substitute with the signs ‘permanent’ and ‘draw’]. Alec’s head bobs again, and I give him a cursory glance. _Why here?_ I query. The black-haired boy’s shoulders slump.

       “My dad sent me a fire message. Told me that when he gets home he's going to have a talk. I let a mundane into the Institute and Hodge told him. How could I have been so stupid?” I have a feeling that the words ‘talk’ are more weighted than they seem. I hesitate a moment before my mouth moves, forming words that I can't believe I'm actually voicing. 

       “Know what you're talking about,” I murmur. “My father was like that—both of them, actually. Adoptive and real one. Asses. But you're not that bad. You love your siblings, don't you? I love Jace and Jak the same way you love Isabelle and… Max, was it? You're protecting them, aren't you?” Alec’s eyes widen and he looks at me, shocked. I shift uncomfortably.

       “How did you know?” he asks, face pale. I sigh.

       “Like I said, my father was like yours. Don't be afraid to talk, if only to me.” Alec nods slowly.

       “Sure,” he whispers. “Sure.” He pauses, and then his head swivels to look at me. “I thought Jace told Isabelle that you couldn't speak.” I hesitate a moment. 

       “Prefer not to,” I reply evasively. “Don't tell that I can. I like silence.” Alec nods slowly.

       “Got it.” Another pause. “Why did you talk to me?” I shrug.

       “Don't know. Felt bad, decided to cheer you up. Went through same thing. Know how much it hurts.” Alec’s mouth tilts up into a ghost of a smile.

       “Thank you,” he says lowly. “For trusting me.” I smile slightly.

       “Rare something,” I say. “Have to do something to deserve it.” We sit there in companionable silence, and it's comfortable, not awkward in the slightest. Finally, Alec breaks it.

       "I was the only Shadowhunter in these parts for a long time," he mumbles. "I started my training when I was five and was pushed out into the field when I was eight with my father. I didn't like the fighting, but I didn't know that there were other options for me at the time. Back then, I thought that the only thing I could do was fight demons." A pause. "I never wanted to fight demons. But I guess, with all of the things that my family has done… what I want just isn’t in the cards for me.” Another pause. "Do me a favor and don't tell anyone about my word vomit?" Alec asks dryly. I huff out a laugh.

       "Sure," I murmur, barely loud enough to be heard.

       I decide that Alec’s sign name is brave. Because no normal person would be able to endure what he has without breaking.  

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       I'm in the training room, hanging upside-down from the rafters and reading. A noise of surprise is all I get to signal that Isabelle Lightwood has entered the room and noticed me. I glance up—well, technically down—from my book to peer at her, then shrug, returning to the well-worn pages.

       “How did you even get up there?” the black-haired Shadowhunter asks, perplexed. I shrug again, which feels kinda weird, since I'm upside-down, before pointing at the climbing wall on the opposite side of the training room. Isabelle gapes. “Angels above, how did you get from there to there?” I close my book, placing it on the rafters carefully, and lift the hanging half of my body up so that I can grasp the rafters with my hands, before releasing my legs and letting myself hang just by my hands.

       I swing one arm over the other, like on a pair of monkey bars, and make my way to the other side of the training room, picking my book up and balancing it on my head as I do. When I reach the center of the room, I release the rafters with one hand and use it to hold my book tightly.

       Then I swing on one arm and let go, flying through the air and into a climbing rope that I grab onto with my free hand, holding onto it tightly. I let myself drop slowly, inch by inch, before I finally reach the ground. Isabelle waits for me there, still gaping. I flush at the older girls amazed stare.

       “Wow,” the dark-haired Shadowhunter finally voices, looking genuinely impressed. “That was so cool.” A pause as a wicked grin spreads over Isabelle’s face. “Teach me?” I hesitate momentarily before I set down my book and beckon her over to the training room climbing wall. 

       Isabelle’s sign name is curious. Because as much as she puts up the front of a ditzy princess, I know that there’s a smart, cunning edge to her—right underneath the deadly intent to kill all demons that cross her path, that is.


	6. Chapter 6

        ** _There are two girls, one on either side of my bed. My attention is immediately drawn to the one on my right. She's small and short, dressed in a black shirt and jeans, the shirt_** ** _hanging_** ** _off a pair of slim shoulders. Her hair is chocolate brown and goes down to about her shoulder blades, braided into a thick rope and thrown over one shoulder carelessly._**

        ** _Her eyes are honey-colored, she's barefoot and the way she's sitting—cross legged, like a kindergartener—makes her look almost innocent. But after seeing her in action, I know that looks can definitely be deceiving._**

               ** _—Clarissa Fray on Jessa Grace_**

* * *

       “I told you it was the same girl,” Isabelle says to her brother smugly.

       “I know,” Alec agrees. “Little thing, isn't she? Jace said she killed a Ravener.”

       “Yeah,” Izzy hums. “I thought she was a pixie the first time we saw her. She's not pretty enough to be a pixie, though.”

       “Well, nobody looks their best with demon poison in their veins,” Alec says dryly. “Is Hodge going to call on the Brothers?”

       “I hope not,” Isabelle replies with a shudder. “They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that—” 

       “We mutilate ourselves,” Alec interrupts matter-of-factly.

       “I know, Alec, but when we do it, it isn't permanent. And it doesn't always hurt…”

       “If you're old enough,” Alec says dismissively. “Speaking of which, where is Jace? He saved her, didn't he? I would have thought he'd take some in her recovery.”

       “Hodge said he hasn't been to see her since he brought her here,” Izzy replies.

       “I guess he doesn't care.” Alec sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if he—”

       Clary twitches in her sleep, and her eyelids flutter, effectively ending the argument.

       “Look! She moved!” Isabelle explains. I give her an ‘uh, duh’ look. 

       “I guess she's alive after all,” Alec sighs. “I'll tell Hodge.” The tall, black-haired Shadowhunter jogs out of the Infirmary. I settle into the cot that I'm perched on more comfortably, feet bare and boots lying off to the side. I hate shoes; I don't know why, I just do, so I take them off whenever I can. The soles of my feet are pretty tough after almost a lifetime of harsh treatment, so I'm pretty good without them. Jak likes to call them hobbit feet minus the hair. 

       Jak is a dick. 

       Clary stirs again, and then her eyes shoot open as she sits up abruptly.

       “So, you're finally awake,” Isabelle says from the redhead’s bedside. “Hodge will be pleased. We all thought you'd probably die in your sleep.” I roll my eyes, checking that my ‘speak in tongues’ rune is active before signing my input.

        _Not. Faith. Most time, anyway._ Clary's eyes widen and her hands fly to her head, pressing the palms of them into her temples.

       “What's going on?” she asks apprehensively. “Why is there a voice in my head? What the hell did you do to me?” I roll my eyes again, snapping my fingers to grab Clary’s attention before lifting my shirt to show her my stomach and reveal the speak in tongues rune.

        _Language Mark_ , I explain, letting my shirt fall back down. _ASL translate._ Clary’s brow furrows, but she doesn't ask anymore questions. The petite redhead turns back to Isabelle.

       “Sorry to disappoint you,” she says, replying to the earlier statement of dying in her sleep and completely ignoring my explanation. “Is this the Institute?” Isabelle rolls her eyes.

       “Is there anything Jace didn't tell you?” the black-haired beauty asks exasperatedly.

        _Not how steal vampire motorcycle_ , I point out. _Or how P-O Clave_ [a combination of the signs ‘shadow’ and ‘law’]  _off. Or—_

       “Yeah, that's enough,” Izzy says, holding a hand up to stop me. I grin, but then Clary coughs.

       “This is the Institute, right?” she demands.

       “Yes,” Isabelle confirms. “You're in the Infirmary, not that you haven't figured that out already.” I stand, stretching luxuriously. Jak always said I took after Chairman Meow. I jump back up onto the cot lightly, perching on the rails at the end of the makeshift bed. All of a sudden, Clary clutches at her stomach, gasping and obviously in some sort of pain. Isabelle looks at her with alarm.

       “Are you okay?”

       “My stomach,” Clary murmurs faintly.

       “Oh, right,” Isabelle says, smacking her forehead. “I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up.” The black-haired girl reaches for a pitcher and pours something into a cup, which she hands over to the redhead. “You haven't eaten anything in three days,” Izzy explains. “That's probably why you feel sick.” The younger girl takes a cautious sip.

       “What is this?” she asks, looking slightly amazed. Izzy shrugs.

       “One of Hodge’s tisanes. They always work.” The black-haired girl slips off of the bed that she's perched on gracefully, then stretches. “I'm Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here,” she informs the redhead.

       “I know your name,” Clary replies. “I'm Clary. Clary Fray. Did Jace bring me here? And who is she?” The redhead’s finger points to me. I shrug.

        _J-E-S-S-A._ I grin at Clary's incredulous look, tapping my nose secretively.

       “The bathroom’s through there, and I hung some of my old clothes on the towel rack in case you want to change,” Isabelle says. 

       “What happened to my clothes?” Clary asks, looking around like she expect them to magically appear or something. Sweetie, the Shadow World does have magic, but nobody in the Institute is a warlock.

        _Blood. Poison. Angel—that J-A-C-E—burn._

       “Did he?” Clary muses, apparently having gotten accustomed to having my voice in her head, translating my signs for her. “Tell me, is he always really rude, or does he save that for mundanes?”

       “Oh, he's rude to everyone,” Izzy replies airily. “It's what makes him so damn sexy. That, and he's killed more demons than anyone else his age.” I wrinkle my nose.

        _Brother_ _!_ I protest, slightly nauseated. 

       “Isn't he your brother?” Clary asks, perplexed. I'm not sure if she'd heard my most recent sign. Isabelle laughs.

       “Jace? My brother? No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

       “Well, he lives here with you,” Clary points out. “Doesn't he?” Izzy nods.

       “Well, yes, but…” I have a sinking feeling about where this conversation is heading.

       “Why doesn't he live with his own parents?” Clary plows on, not seeming to care about anything other than information. Kinda bitchy if you ask me. Why  _wouldn’t_ someone live with their parents at the age of seventeen, you stupid shit? Isabelle looks uncomfortable, and my throat seems to be closing up.

       “Because they're dead,” the black-haired girl says shortly. Clary has a look of genuine surprise. I kind of hate her for it. She's been sheltered her whole life, and it shows by how she's realizing, slowly, that some kids don't have happy childhoods.

       “Did they die in an accident?” the petite girl asks slowly. **Murder doesn’t happen by accident** , I think dully. 

       “No,” Isabelle replies, fidgeting. “His mother died when he was born. His father as murdered when he was ten. Jace saw the whole thing.”

       “Oh,” Clary says faintly. “Was it… demons?” I spring off of the bed rails lightly, landing on the floor silently. Isabelle looks to me, then away just as quickly to talk to Clary.

       “Look, I'd better let everyone know you've woken up. They've been waiting for you to open your eyes for three days.” The black-haired girl pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and there's soap in the bathroom. You might want to clean up a little. You smell.”

       “Thanks a lot,” Clary replies dryly.

       “Any time,” Izzy replies brightly, hurrying out of the room. Clary leaves the room to change, and I ghost around the room absently, not looking for something in particular, just bored. Finally, Clary comes out of the bathroom. I turn to face her with a bright grin, covering up my unease from before.

        _Find Shadowhunter?_ I suggest brightly, already heading out of the Infirmary, Clary catching up outside.

       “Do you even know where you're going?” she questions. I look at her and shake my head bluntly. Her brow furrows. “But… don't you live here too?” I shake my head.

        _No contact Shadowhunters since nine._ It’s a risky lie, but I don’t want to risk the safety of those in the Los Angeles Institute. Clary frowns.

       “Then… what have you been doing all this time?” I wiggle my fingers mysteriously, a smile blossoming across my face to hide the bitchy “None of your business” that comes to mind. Down the hall, I catch the faint sounds of a piano being played, and follow the sound until I come to a propped-open door. I poke my head in to see Jace sitting at the piano bench.

       “Alec?” he asks. “Is that you?” I walk into the room, bare feet making no sound against the wood floor, shaking my head.

       “Just us,” Clary says. Jace grins.

       “Our own Sleeping Beauty. Who finally kissed you awake?” the blonde questions, rising from his place at the piano bench.

       “Nobody,” Clary replies indignantly. “I woke up on my own.”

       “Was there anyone with you?” my brother asks. Clary nods.

       “Isabelle and… Jessa, right?” I nod. “Isabelle told us to wait, but—”

       “I should have warned her about your habits of never doing what you're told,” Jace interrupts smoothly, peering at the two of us then focusing more on Clary. “Are those Isabelle’s clothes? They look ridiculous on you.”

       “I could point out that you burned my clothes,” Clary replies firmly. I grin.

        _Go? Now Angel here, take to Crow,_ I sign, turning and exiting the music room. Jace leads Clary and me down hallway after hallway. Clary has a constant look of wonder on her face, but I have to regulate my breathing because this place looks way too much like Wayland Manor.

       “Why does this place have so many bedrooms?” Clary suddenly asks. “I thought it was a research Institute.” I glance around, putting the pieces together.

        _Live space?_  I guess. Jace nods.

       “We're pledged to offer safety and lodging to any Shadowhunter who requests it. We can house up to two hundred people here.”

       “But most of these rooms are empty.” My blonde brother shrugs.

       “People come and go. Nobody stays for long. Usually it's just us: Alec, Isabelle, Max, their parents—and me and Hodge.”

       “Max?” Clary questions. I remember him. Alec had told me about him on day two. We'd swapped stories a lot, and how being relied on was sometimes the best, sometimes the worst. To be honest, I was the reliable one in my small family. Magnus was Magnus, Jak could not be trusted to make most of his own decisions and Chairman Meow was a cat. Pretty much my only sane moments were when Raphael, Ragnor and Catarina came over for a visit. 

       And with both Ragnor and Ralph, it was a coin toss on whether or not they’d be little shits or not. 

       “You met the beauteous Isabelle?” Jace asks in answer to Clary’s question about Alec’s baby brother. “Alec is her elder brother. Max is the youngest, but he's overseas with his parents.”

       “On vacation?” Clary asks naively.

       “Not exactly.” Jace hesitates. “You can think of the as—as foreign diplomats, and of this as an embassy, of sorts. Right now they're in the Shadowhunter home country, working out some very delicate peace negotiations. They brought Max with them because he's so young.”

       “Shadowhunter home country?” the petite redhead questions, clearly confused. “What's it called?”

       “Idris,” Jace replies.

       “I've never heard of it,” Clary says, confused.

       “You wouldn't have,” the blonde says. “Mundanes don't know about it. There are wardings—protective spells—up all over the borders. If you tried to cross into Idris, you'd simply find yourself transported instantly from one border to the other. You'd never know what happened.”

       “So it's not on any maps?” the redhead asks.

       “Not mundie ones,” Jace confirms. “For our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France.”

       “But there isn't anything between Germany and France,” the petite girl protests. “Except Switzerland.” 

        _Nice country,_ I add. Jace rolls his eyes at me.

       “Precisely,” he says, in reaction to Clary’s earlier words.

       “I take it you've been there,” Clary says. “To Idris, I mean.” I stiffen imperceptibly and frown.

       “We grew up there.”

       “We?”

       “Jessa, Jak and me. Most of us do. There are, of course, Shadowhunters all over the world. We have to be everywhere, because demonic activity is everywhere. But to a Shadowhunter, Idris is always ‘home.’” 

       “Like Mecca or Jerusalem,” Clary observes thoughtfully, not noticing the extra name there. “So most of you are brought up there, and then when you grow up—” 

        _Send where need,_ I interrupt.

       “And there are a few, like Isabelle, Alec, Jessa and Jak, who grow up away from the home country because that's where their parents are,” Jace adds. I wince at the word parents. “With all the resources of the Institute here, with Hodge’s training—”

       He cuts himself off. “This is the Library.” I smile as a cat curls around my feet, bending down to pick it up. 

       “Wait,” Clary says. “Alec and Isabelle and Jessa—they're the only Shadowhunters your age that you know, that you spend time with?” Jace frowns.

       “Yes. Although, I'm not sure if Jessamine counts, as she only came here a couple of days ago, but prior to that I'd spent four years in her company.” I roll my eyes, passing the cat over to the blonde.

        _J-E-S-S-A,_ I sign firmly. I take the cat back quickly, glancing over at Clary. The redhead looks kind of sad, but mostly confused.

       “That must get kind of lonely.”

       “I have everything I need,” Jace replies simply. He hesitates before knocking on the door. “Alec?” I hear a faint, weary sigh.

       “Come in.” Jace pushes the library doors open, and Clary and I follow him in.


	7. Chapter 7

       The library is circular, the ceiling tapering into a point like a tower. The walls are lined with books, the shelves so high that tall ladders set on wheels are positioned along them at intervals. The books on the shelves weren't mundane books, either. They were books bound in leather and velvet, clasped with sturdy locks and hinges made of brass and silver, spines studded with fully glowing jewels and illuminated with gold script. They're worn in a familiar way, like Magnus’ books, which indicates that they're old, well used and loved.

       The floor is polished wood, inlaid with chips of glass, marble and bits of semi precious stone, the inlay forming a pattern that could have been the constellations or maybe a map of the world. In the very center of the room rests a massive desk, the top carved from a slab of heavy oak wood that gleams with a dull shine to indicate years of use. The big slab of wood rests upon the backs of two angel, both carved from identical wood, their wings gilded and faces engraved in a look of suffering, like the weight of the wood upon their backs was breaking them slowly.

       Alec sits by a blazing fire, curled up in an armchair with a book. I wander over, plopping down in an armchair next to him as the other two trail behind. Church runs off. Clary spins around, obviously amazed, and the library doors swing open to let Hodge in. I notice that there's a black raven on his shoulder.

       “A book lover, I see,” he says, smiling at Clary’s amazement. “You didn't tell me that, Jace.” Jace chuckles and I roll my eyes.

        _No talk when die_ , I point out. Clary turns and shoots me a glare. I recoil minimally before relaxing and remembering that she wasn't going to hurt me.

       “How can you tell?” she asks Hodge as he crosses the room to stand in front of what I assume is his desk. “That I like books, I mean.” 

       “The look on your face that I saw as I entered the room,” he says. “Somehow I doubted you were that impressed by me. This is Hugo,” Hodge adds, touching the docile bird on his shoulder. “Hugo is a raven, and, as such, he knows many things. I, meanwhile, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly enough.” Clary laughs a little and shakes the older man's outstretched hand.

       “Clary Fray.”

       “Honored to make your acquaintance,” he replied. He turns towards me. “And you, Ms. Wayland.” I scowl.

        _G-R-A-C-E_ , I correct. _Angel sister, no same name._  Hodge nods infinitesimally, while Clary looks between Jace and me, realization crossing her face. I shake my head slightly at her. _Saw kill demon_ [a decidedly unholy bastard of the signs for ‘small’ and ‘devil’], I sign, changing the subject. _Just hand._

       “It wasn't my bare hands,” Clary protests, flustered. “It was Jace's—well, I don't remember what it was called, but—” 

       “She means my Sensor,” Jace interrupts. “She shoved it down the things throat. The runes must have choked it, but Jessa had to give it a nudge back down to Edom. I guess I'll need another Sensor,” he adds as an afterthought.

        _Think?_ I ask sarcastically.

       “There are several extra in the weapons room,” Hodge says. He smiles at Clary. “That was quick thinking. What gave you the idea of using the Sensor as a weapon?”

       “Um, I…” Clary stumbles over her words and I stretch, almost sliding off of the chair. I vaguely realize that I've left my boots in the Infirmary. “It was a heat of the moment thing,” Clary finally settles on. Alec’s eyes are watching the redhead warily. “It was on top of me, and I couldn't reach anything else, my arm came free and it had the Sensor, so I just…” She motions vaguely and Hodge nods.

       “It seems the time has come to notify the Clave,” he says.

       “No!” Jace exclaims. “We can't—” 

       “It made sense to keep Clary’s presence here a secret while we were not sure she would recover,” Hodge says calmly. “But now she has, and she is the first mundane to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred years. You know the rules about mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters.” I wince. “The Clave must be informed.”

       “She's not a mundane,” Jace argues quietly. I sit up in my chair, hands rising to sign.

       “But I am,” Clary protests. I shake my head, the memory of that night replaying in my head to the time we spent behind the rose bushes.

        _Demons_ , I sign. _Had to get past. Red too weak, no hide. Would die. Angel Mark inside arm._

       “Are you out of your mind?” Hodge exclaims, slamming a hand down on top of the desk and directing his ire at my brother. “You know what the Law says about placing Marks on mundanes! You—you of all people ought to know better!”

        _Work_ , I sign forcefully, hoping that the louder tone would translate into the others’ minds. _Red, show arm._ Clary does so, albeit confusedly. Faint white lines are on the inside of her arm, right where my older, impulsive brother had Marked her.

       “See, it's almost gone,” Jace says. “It didn't hurt her at all.”

       “That's not the point,” Hodge grits out, barely controlling his anger. “You could have turned her into a Forsaken. And you” —he’s looking at me now— “I can't believe you let him do this. You could have stopped him or helped him fight, but instead you probably held her down as he drew the rune, didn't you? Only Shadowhunters can receive Covenant Marks—they kill mundanes—” 

        _Not human_ , I sign loudly. Or, well, metaphorically speaking. _Could see. Clave blood?_

       “But I don't,” Clary says desperately, looking hopelessly confused. “I couldn't.”

       “You must,” Jace replies. “If you didn't, that Mark I made on your arm…”

       “That's enough, Jace,” Hodge says sharply, displeasure dripping from his words. “There's no need to frighten her further.”

       “But I was right, wasn't I?” Jace insists. “It explains what happened to her mother, too. If she was a Shadowhunter in exile, she might well have Downworld enemies.”

       “My mother wasn't a Shadowhunter!” Clary exclaims.

       “Your father, then,” Jace says. “What about him?”

       “He died. Before I was born.” I stand abruptly, eyeing Hodge and Jace, who are both looking at the petite redhead like vultures, curling an arm around her shaking shoulders and pressing her to my side comfortingly, shielding her from their gazes.

       “It's possible,” Alec says uncertainly, speaking for the first time since Jace, Clary and I had come into the library. “If her father were a Shadowhunter, and her mother a mundane— Well, we all know that it's against the Law to marry a mundie. Maybe they were in hiding.” 

       “My mother would have told me,” Clary insists, but even she looks doubtful.

       “Not necessarily,” Jace says. He glances at me. “We all have secrets.” I nod silently.

       “Luke,” Clary suddenly says. “Our friend. He would know.” She looks alarmed all of a sudden, like it's all just sinking in. “It's been three days—he must be frantic. Can I call him? Is there a phone?” She turns to Jace. “Please.” I look at Hodge around Clary’s head, fixing him with a hard stare.

       The old man quickly steps aside to reveal a phone, and Clary hurries over to it as soon as I retract my arm from around her shoulders. I wait, eyes skimming up and down the spines of the various books shelved against the walls, as Clary dials whoever Luke is. All of a sudden, a bang startles me out of my daze and I visibly flinch, hands snapping up into a protective stance, then relaxing just as quickly.

       “I take it he wasn't happy to hear from you?” Jace asks dryly. I walk over to the blonde silently to cuff him over the head.

       “I think I'd like to have a talk with Clary,” Hodge says. Nobody moves. “Alone,” the old man adds firmly. Alec stands up.

       “We'll leave you to it.”

       “That's hardly fair,” Jace protests. I roll my eyes and catch his arm as I walk to the door, tugging at him and giving him a pointed glare. “Fine,” the stubborn blonde sighs. “We'll be in the weapons room.” He allows me to drag him out, and I release him when we reach the library doors, which Alec is holding open. I walk in between the two _parabatai_ and frown.

        _What happen? Been long time._ Jace looks at me, an amused look flitting over his face.

       “Well, Hodge is mad at me, Alec is mad at me—“ the aforementioned boy grunts in confirmation— “Clary and Isabelle are not yet mad at me, but probably will be soon, and you… well, I have no idea.” I roll my eyes. 

        _Know what mean._ Jace shuts his trap at that and we continue down the hall. I haven't been into the weapons room yet, so I take a look around when we enter. The room smells like metal, leather and steel polish, the burnished metal walls lined with all types of swords, daggers, spikes, pikes, feather staffs, bayonets, whips, maces, hooks and bows. Soft leather quivers already filled with arrows dangle from hooks, and there are stacks of boots, leg guards and gauntlets for both wrists and arms. I perk up instantly, turning to face the two boys in the doorway.

       “Can I borrow some?” I ask. Jace looks distinctly surprised. 

       “You're talking to Alec?” he questions. I nod, because even if I do speak to the two of them, I‘d rather not talk more than necessary. The blonde blinks, and it's Alec who answers my previous question.

       “Yeah, just don't tell anyone that you took them.” I grin, skipping over to the weapons wall. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       A couple minutes later, I've already picked out a pair of short swords named Barachiel and Gavreel, eight shuriken, eight throwing daggers, gauntlets for arms and a pair of leg guards. By the time Clary enters the weapons room, I'm strapping them all into place, hidden under my jacket, shirt and jeans.

       “Where's Hodge?” Jace asks as I straighten from my hunched position after I've finished tightening the last strap.

       “Writing to the Silent Brothers,” Clary replied. I scowl as I ghost over to where Alec and Jace bend over three seraph blades on a table. “What are you doing?” Clary asks, approaching the table as well.

       “Putting the last touches on these.” Jace moves so that she can see the swords. “Sanvi, Sansanvi and Semangelaf. They're seraph blades.” The redhead frowns.

       “Those don't look like knives,” she says. “How did you make them? Magic?”

       “The funny thing about mundies,” Jace says, talking to thin air, “is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people who don't even know what the word means.”

       “I know what it means,” Clary snaps. I shake my head. 

        _No. Wild, hard control_ , I sign.

       “It's not sparkly wands and crystal balls and talking goldfish,” Jace adds. I give him a glare, one that matches Clary's equally venomous one.

       “I never said it was a lot of talking goldfish, you—” 

       Jace waves a hand that cuts her off. “Just because you call an electric eel a rubber duck doesn't make it a rubber duck, does it? And God help the poor bastard who decides they want to take a bath with the duckie.”

       “You're driveling,” Clary observes.

       “I'm not,” Jace says with great dignity for someone who was, in fact, driveling.

       “Yes, you are,” Alec says calmly. “Look, we don't do magic, okay?” he adds, not looking at Clary. “That's all you need to know about it.” Clary drops the subject, thankfully, and turns to Jace.

       “Hodge said I can go home.” Jace nearly drops the seraph blade he's holding. **Epitome of grace and perfection** , I think amusedly.

       “He said what?” the blonde asks.

       “To look through my mother's things,” Clary quickly amends. “If you go with me.”

       “Jace,” Alec starts, but Jace, being Jace, ignores him.

       “If you really want to prove that my mom or dad was a Shadowhunter, we should look through my mom's things,” Clary continues. “What's left of them.” 

       “Down the rabbit hole,” Jace says with a crooked grin. “Good idea. If we go right now, we should have another three, four hours of daylight.” 

       “Do you want me to come with you?” Alec asks. I recall what he'd said to me on the roof of the Institute a couple nights ago. That the Institute was like a pretty cage to him. Jace decides to be obtuse and simply turns to lead Clary out of the room.

       “No,” my brother says without turning around. “That's all right. Clary and I can handle this on our own.” Alec looks both betrayed and sad.


	8. Chapter 8

       When Jace and Clary enter the kitchen, I'm half asleep, a mug of plain black coffee (“Like your soul,” Jak likes to say) in front of me. I glance up and brighten as soon as I see Jace, but then I notice the person behind them. More specifically, the mundane. I frown.

        _Who?_ I ask, pointing at the boy. The boy in question yelps, looking around apprehensively.

       “What the fuck?” he exclaims. Before he has the chance to say much more, Isabelle speaks.

       “I'm making soup,” the black-haired beauty declares, waving the spoon over her shoulder at Jace. “Are you hungry?” She turns and stares.

       “Oh. My. God,” she says with finality. “You brought another mundie here? Hodge is going to kill you.” I think about Alec and his father briefly, stomach lurching. 

       “I'm Simon,” the mundane says. I give him the ASL sign for hello and he stares at me in amazement. Isabelle, however, ignores him.

       “JACE WAYLAND,” she says. “Explain yourself.” Jace doesn't answer, instead choosing to glare at Church, whom I've just noticed.

       “I told you to bring me to Alec! Backstabbing Judas!” Church purrs, jumping up onto the counter in front of me. I stroke him contentedly, and the blue-furred cat rolls onto his back.

       “Don't blame Church,” Isabelle says. “It's not his fault Hodge is going to kill you.” She dunks the wooden spoon back into the pot.

       “I had to bring him,” Jace replied defensively. “Jessa—today I saw two of the men who killed our father.” I stiffen, whipping around, fully awake now. **Son of a bitch—**

       “I don't suppose he's one of them?” Izzy asks, turning around to point her spoon at Simon, more upset than surprised. I give her a look.

        _Would still be alive if was?_ I sign impatiently.

       “I suppose not,” Isabelle replies absently, dropping a piece of fish onto the floor. Church launches himself off of the counter and falls upon the fish like a starved cat.

       “No wonder he brought us here,” Jace says, vaguely disgusted. “I can't believe you've been stuffing him with fish again. He's looking distinctly podgy.”

       “He does not look podgy,” Isabelle says indignantly. “Besides, none of the rest of you ever eat anything. I got this recipe from a water sprite at the Chelsea Market. He said it was delicious—” 

       “If you knew how to cook, maybe I would eat,” Jace mutters under his breath. Isabelle freezes, spoon poised over the pot.

       “What did you say?” Jace edges towards the fridge.

       “I said I'm going to look for a snack to eat.”

       “That's what I thought you said,” Izzy replies, turning her attention to the soup.

        _Who?_ I ask abruptly. Jace doesn't need me to elaborate to know what I'm talking about, even if I’d signed that same question in completely different context earlier. 

       “One was called Pangborn and the other was a guy named Blackwell,” he replies, coming over to the counter with a box of spaghetti and a plastic fork.

       “We need to find Hodge,” Clary murmurs to Jace. The blonde nods, scooping up a big forkful of pasta.

       “Let's go.” I follow the two as they stand up to leave, my brother leaving the leftovers at the counter but bringing the fork. 

       “Where are you going?” Simon questions.

       “To find Hodge,” Clary replies. “I need to tell him about what happened at Luke’s.” Isabelle looks up from her soup.

       “Are you going to tell him that you saw those men, Jace? the ones that—” 

       “I don't know,” Jace interrupts in a flat tone. He looks slightly ridiculous with a massive forkful of spaghetti in one hand. “So keep it to yourself for now.” The black-haired Shadowhunter shrugs.

       “All right. Are you going to come back? Do you want any soup.” I shake my head no, and Jace and Clary both vocalize their vetoes. “Do you think Hodge will want any soup?”

       “No one wants any soup,” Jace says exasperatedly.

       “I want some soup,” Simon says. I roll my eyes.

       “No you don't,” Jace objects. “You just want to sleep with Isabelle.” Okay, that's a little harsh. Simon looks appalled.

       “That is not true,” he replied with dignity.

       “How flattering,” Izzy murmurs. She's smirking, though.

       “Oh, yes it is,” Jace says. “Go ahead and ask her—then she can turn you down and the rest of us can get on with our lives while you fester in miserable humiliation.” He snaps his fingers as I drill a hole in the back of his blonde head with my glare. “Hurry up, mundie boy, we've got work to do.”

       “Leave him alone,” Clary snaps. “There's no need to be sadistic just because he isn't one of you.”

        _Us,_ I correct on technicality.

       “I'm going to find Hodge,” Jace declares. “Come along or not, it's your choice.” I follow him with an irritated sigh, the kitchen door swinging shut behind us. Clary comes out not a moment later. “Kind of you to leave the lovebirds to it,” Jace says dryly. Clary just frowns at him.

       “Why are you always such an asshat?” she asks bluntly.

       “An asshat?” Jace asks, disbelieving.

       “What you said to Simon—” 

       “I was trying to save him some pain,” the blonde says dismissively. “Isabelle will cut out his heart and walk all over it in high-heeled boots. That's what she does to boys like that.”

       “Is that what she did to you?” Clary questions, but Jace wrinkles his nose, turning to Church, who'd followed me out of the kitchen.

       “Hodge,” he says. “And really Hodge this time. Bring us anywhere else, and I'll make you into a tennis racket.” I give Jace a scolding look, because that cat is kinda sweet. I hang behind the two as they walk down the hall until we arrive at what I assume is the greenhouse, a place that Isabelle had told me about yesterday. Bending down, I scoop Church up. The blue cat purrs as I stroke him. 

       “Smells nice,” Clary murmurs. I breathe in deeply, smiling at the mixed scents.

       “Home,” Jace replies, licking the last of the pasta sauce off of his for,, “to me.” He pushes past a hanging frond, Clary and me following at his heels. We find Hodge sitting on a stone bench, his raven, Hugo, perched on the back of the bench behind him, watching the ground in front of him.

       “You look like you're waiting for something,” Jace observes emotionlessly.

       “I was lost in thought,” the old man replies, rising from the bench and stretching an arm out for Hugo to land on. “What happened?” he queries. “You look as if—” 

       “We were attacked,” Jace says shortly. “Forsaken.” My head snaps towards the blonde, a piercing glare already in place as Church, as if sensing my intent, leaps out of my arms and curls around my feet instead, freeing my hands for me to sign.

        _And no tell why?_ I ask scathingly. _Warriors? Here?_

       “Warrior,” Jace corrects. “We only saw one.”

       “But Dorothea said there were more,” Clary objects. I frown.

        _Hedge_ [there’s no ASL for hedge, so I substitute with the sign for ‘bush’]  _Witch?_

       “Dorothea?” Hodge questions at the same time, holding a hand up. “This might be easier if you took events in order.” 

       “Right,” Jace begins, giving Clary a warning look to cut her off before she can even open her mouth. Good. From past experiences, the redhead is sometimes a bit too chatty for her own good. The blonde then launches into a description of the afternoon's events, leaving out the one detail that he'd told Isabelle and me—that the men in Luke’s apartment had been the same men who'd killed our father seven years ago. Long story short, a nefarious psychopath who's supposed to be dead is supposedly alive and we probably can't trust the Brocelind wolf pack anymore.

       “Clary's mother's friend—or whatever he is, really—goes by the name Luke Garroway,” Jace mops up with. “But while we were at his house, the two men who claimed they were emissaries of Valentine referred to him as Lucian Graymark.” 

       “And their names were…” Hodge asks.

       “Pangborn,” Jace says emotionlessly. “And Blackwell.” Hodge is very, very pale. The red scar on his cheek stands out against his skin, and something in my mind flickers at that.

       “It is as I feared,” the old man murmurs, half to himself. “The Circle is rising again.” I draw in a sharp breath, the history lessons with Magnus rushing back. The Circle. Valentine. Downworlder extinction, or at the very least subjugation. The Uprising. The Whitelaws. Countless dead. Letting out a mental curse, I begin to dig around in my pockets for my phone so I can contact Magnus or Jak and let them know what might be happening. 

       “The Circle?” Jace asks. I look up in surprise.

        _Not_ _know?_ I ask Hodge, pointing at Jace. Hodge shakes his head, though in acknowledgment of my question or in an attempt to rid his brain of fuzz I have no idea.

       “Come with me,” he says. “It's time I showed you something.” The beak-nosed man leads the three of us into the library and ducks behind his desk.

       “Hodge, if you need help looking—” 

       “Not at all,” Hodge interrupts Jace, reappearing from behind the desk, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers and placing a large book on the table. “I've found it.”


	9. Chapter 9

       Opening the book, he reads aloud to us all.

       “‘I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles. I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged.’” I fold my arms with a dark scowl, thinking about Magnus, Ragnor, Catarina, Raphael and my other Downworlder friends, the meaning behind the stupid oath not hidden from my ears. Jace is making a face.

       “What was that from?” the blonde asks.

       “It was the loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel, twenty years ago,” Hodge replies, sounding tired.

       “It sounds creepy,” Clary says bluntly. I give her a knowing look. “Like a fascist organization or something.” Hodge steps away from the book.

       “They were a group,” he says slowly, “of Shadowhunters, led by Valentine, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and returning the world to a ‘purer’ state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the Accords. They must be signed again every fifteen years, to keep their magic potent.” The last part is, assumingly, for Clary’s benefit. “Then, they planned to slaughtered them all, unarmed and defenseless. This terrible act, they thought, would spark off a war between humans and Downworlders—one they intended to win.”

       “That was the Uprising,” Jace says. “I didn't know Valentine and his followers had a name.”

       “The name isn't spoken often nowadays,” Hodge says. “Their existence remains an embarrassment to the Clave. Most documents pertaining to them have been destroyed.” I decide that now is not a good time to mention that I live with a warlock centuries old who was the representative of the warlocks for a long time, and lived through the Uprising.

       “Then why do you have a copy of that oath?” Jace asks. Hodge hesitates, but only for a moment.

       “Because I helped write it,” the old man finally says, shame coloring his voice. Jace stares.

       “You were in the Circle.”

       “I was. Many of us were.” The beak-nosed man refuses to make eye contact with any of us. “Clary’s mother as well.” Clary jerks back like he'd slapped her.

       “What?”

       “I said—” 

       “I know what you said!” Clary exclaims. “My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind of—some kind of hate group.”

       “It wasn't—”

       “I doubt,” Hodge interrupts my brother, “that she had much choice.” The words are slow and deliberate, as if they're being forced out of his throat painfully.

       “What are you talking about?” the redhead demands. “Why wouldn't she have a choice?”

       “Because,” Hodge says, “she was Valentine’s wife.” There's a moment of stunned silence. Jace is the first to break it.

       “Valentine had a wife? He was married? I thought—” 

       “That's impossible!” Clary exclaims, steamrolling through everyone else. “My mother would never—she was only ever married to my father. She didn't have an ex-husband.” Hodge raises his hands warily, as if to ward off Clary's next words.

       “Children—”

       “I'm not a child,” the petite redhead snaps, spinning away from the desk furiously. “And I don't want to hear any more.”

       “Clary,” Hodge says gently.

       “My mother wouldn't…” She trails off.

       “Your mother left the Circle,” Hodge explains. “Once we realized how extreme Valentine’s views had become—once we knew what he was prepared to do—many of us left. Lucian was the first to leave. That was a blow to Valentine. They had been very close.” The old man shakes his head. “Then Michael Wayland. Your father, Jace. Jessa.” I look down at my bare feet. “There were those who stayed loyal. Pangborn. Blackwell. The Lightwoods—” 

       “The Lightwoods?” Jace asks, thunderstruck. “You mean Robert and Maryse? What about you? When did you leave?”

       “I didn't,” Hodge admits softly. “Neither did they. We were afraid, too afraid of what he might do. After the Uprising, the loyalists like Blackwell and Pangborn fled. We stayed and cooperated with the Clave. Gave them names. Helped them track down the ones who ran away. For that we received clemency.”

       “Clemency?” Jace asks.

       “You are thinking of the curse that binds me here, aren't you?” Hodge asks knowingly. “You always assumed it was a vengeance spell cast by an angry demon or warlock. I let you think it. But it is not the truth. The curse that binds me was cast by the Clave." 

        _Circle?_ I ask flatly. 

       “For not leaving it before the Uprising,” Hodge corrects.

       “But the Lightwoods weren't punished,” Clary points out. “Why not? They'd done the same thing you'd done.” I connect the dots faster than Hodge can explain.

        _Kid. Marry. Banish?_ Hodge nods in confirmation, and some of the resentment I hold towards him lessens.

       “We were banished here, the three of us—the four of us, I should say; Alec was a squalling baby when we left the Glass City. They can return to Idris on official business only, and then only for short times. I can never return. I will never see the Glass City again.” Jace is staring.

       “The Law is hard, but it is the Law,” he whispers.

       “I taught you that,” Hodge says, dry amusement coloring his voice. “And now you turn my lessons back at me. Rightly too.”

       “Why didn't you tell me before?” Clary demands. “That my mother was married to Valentine. You knew her name—” 

       “I knew her as Jocelyn Fairchild, not Jocelyn Fray,” Hodge counters. “And you were so insistent on her ignorance of the Shadow World, you convinced me it could not be the Jocelyn I knew—and perhaps I did not want to believe it. No one would wish for Valentine’s return.” The old man shakes his graying head. “When I sent for the Brothers of the Bone City this morning, I had no idea just what news we would have for them,” he murmurs. “When the Clave finds out Valentine may have returned, that he is seeking the Cup, there will be an uproar. I can only hope it does not disrupt the Accords.”

       “I bet Valentine would like that,” Jace replies. “But why does he want the Cup so badly?” I give my blonde brother an incredulous look.

        _Army_ , I sign forcefully. Jace looks startled.

       “But that would never—” 

       “Dinnertime!” It's Isabelle, standing in the doorway of the library. “Sorry if I'm interrupting,” she adds as an afterthought.

       “Dear God,” Jace mumbles. “The dread hour is nigh.” Hodge looks vaguely alarmed.

       “I-I-I had a very filling breakfast,” the old man stammers. “I mean lunch. A filling lunch. I couldn't possibly eat—” 

       “I threw out the soup,” Isabelle says flatly. “And ordered Chinese from that place downtown.” Jace pushes off of the desk and stretches.

       “Great,” he says. “I'm starved.” I nod in agreement.

       “I might be able to eat a bite,” Hodge says meekly.

       “You two are terrible liars,” Isabelle comments darkly. “Look, I know you don't like my cooking—” 

       “So stop doing it,” Jace advises her with a straight face. “Did you order mu shu pork? You know I love mu shu pork.” Isabelle’s eyes roll to the heavens.

       “Yes. It's in the kitchen.”

       “Awesome,” the blonde says, walking out. Clary and Hodge follow him as I roll my eyes, trailing behind the redhead. When the four of us enter the room, Alec and Simon are say at the table, and I recognize my mug from earlier in Alec’s hands. I make a whining noise, acting like a two-year-old without speaking until he gives it back. I wipe the rim and chug the stuff, then get up to make more. Don't judge, 50% of my diet is coffee.

       The other half is comprised of healthy stuff that Magnus forces down my throat and junk food. The kitchen smells salty-sweet, the familiar smell of Chinese takeout. (Whenever I'm not around, the boys end up ordering it in copious amounts. That and pizza from that really good place a couple blocks down.)

       “Well, I think it's kind of romantic,” Isabelle says, sucking tapioca pearls through an enormous pink straw.

       “What is?” Simon asks, instantly alert.

       “That whole business about Clary’s mother being married to Valentine,” the black-haired Shadowhunter explains. “So now he's back from the dead and he's come looking for her. Maybe he wants to get back together.” I choke on my coffee and Alec pounds me on the back. Setting down my coffee, eyes watering, I manage to get out a bit of sarcastic sign.

        _Sure. Demon good present. What I would do if love someone._

       “I kind of doubt he sent a Ravener demon to her house because he wants to ‘get back together,’” Alec agrees dryly.

       “It wouldn't be my move,” Jace seconds. “First the candy and flowers, then the apology letters, then the ravenous demon hordes. In that order.”

        _Might have send candy, flower,_ I muse. _Never know. Maybe song?_

       “Jessamine,” Hodge says patiently. “This is the man who rained down destruction on Idris, the like of which it had never seen, who set Shadowhunter against Downworlders and made the streets of the Glass City run with blood.” I nod in agreement.

        _Yes, but never know. Know guy who—_

       “Jess,” Alec says dryly. “We get it. We don't know.” I grin, giving him a thumbs up. The taller boy rolls his eyes.

       “That's sort of hot,” Izzy argues. “That evil thing.”

        _Too far,_ I declare, pointing at the black-haired beauty.

       “So why does Valentine want this Cup so bad, why does he think Clary’s mom has it and why do I keep hearing a voice in my head every time you make motions with your hands?” Simon asks. I assume the last part is directed at me. I lift the shirt that I'm wearing (one of Alec’s again) to reveal the speak in tongues rube on my sternum. 

        _Language Mark_ , I explain. _Word in head what I mean when sign_.

       “Ohhhhh,” Simon says. Clary looks at me.

       “You said it was so he could make an army,” she says.

       “You mean because you can use the Cup to make Shadowhunters?” the mundane boy asks. I nod my head in confirmation. “So Valentine could just walk up to any guy on the street and make a Shadowhunter out of him? Just with the Cup?” Simon pauses, leaning forwards. “Would it work on me?” I wrinkle my nose as I think before shrugging.

       “Possibly,” Hodge vocalizes, giving Simon a long, calculating look. “But most likely, you're too old. The Cup works on children. An adult would either be unaffected by the process entirely, or killed outright.”


	10. Chapter 10

       “A child army,” Izzy murmurs softly.

       “Only for a few years,” Jace objects. “Kids grow fast. It wouldn't be too long before they're a force to contend with.” I glance at him, knowing that he speaks from experience. That I could speak from experience.

       “I don't know,” Simon says doubtfully. “Turning a bunch of kids into warriors—I've heard of worse stuff happening. I don't see the big deal about keeping the Cup away from him.” I slam my hands into the table with frustration.

        _Apart from attack Clave_ , I sign angrily, _lots die. Some survive, most don't._  Hodge is nodding along to my signed words. 

       “It takes special strength and resilience. Before they can be turned, they must be extensively tested—but Valentine would never bother with that. He would use the Cup on any child he could capture, and cull out the twenty percent who survived to be his army.” Alec looks at Hodge in horror.

       “How do you know he'd do that?”

       “Because when he was in the Circle, that was his plan,” the old man replies. “He said it was the only way to build the kind of force that was needed to defend our world.”

       “But that's murder,” Isabelle says, voice a bit faint and looking a little green. “He was talking about killing children.”

        _Think?_ I manage with shaking hands. 

       “He said that we had made the world safe for humans for a thousand years,” Hodge replies sadly, not in the least bit defensive. “And now was their time to repay us with their own sacrifice.”

       “Their children?” Jace demands, cheeks tinged pink. “That goes against everything we're supposed to be about. Protecting the helpless, safeguarding humanity—” 

       Hodge pushes his plate away. “Valentine was insane,” the old man says shortly. “Brilliant, but insane. He cared about nothing but killing demons and Downworlders. Nothing but making the world pure. He would have sacrificed his own son for the cause and could not understand how anyone else would not.”

       “He had a son?” Alec asks.

       “I was speaking figuratively, although he did have a sister named Christina, who went MIA in the middle of the Uprising,” Hodge replies, reaching for his handkerchief, which he uses to mop his forehead before returning it to his pocket. “When his land burned, when his home was destroyed, it was assumed that he had burned himself and the Cup to ashes rather than relinquish either to the Clave. His bones were found in the ashes, along with the bones of his wife.”

       “But my mother lived,” Clary says. “She didn't die in that fire.”

       “And neither, it seems now, did Valentine,” Hodge sighs. “The Clave will not be pleased to have been fooled. But more importantly, they will want to secure the Cup. And more importantly than that, they will want to make sure Valentine does not.”

       “It seems to me that the first thing we'd better do is find Clary’s mother,” Jace points out. “Find her, find the Cup, get it before Valentine does.” Hodge looks at Jace with disbelief, the kind that I direct at Jak when he suggests doing something so monumentally stupid I wouldn't even be able to pull his ass out of the fire. 

       “Absolutely not,” the acting head of the Institute says sternly.

       “Then what do we do?” Jace questions.

       “Nothing,” Hodge replies. “All this is best left to skilled, experienced Shadowhunters.”

       “I am skilled,” Jace protests. “I am experienced.” He sounds like he's ten again.

       “I know that you are, but you're still a child, or nearly one,” Hodge says in a firm, parental voice.

       “I am not a child,” my brother says indignantly, looking at Hodge through slitted eyes.

       “Hodge is right,” Alec breaks in soothingly, looking at Jace. “Valentine is dangerous. I know you're a good Shadowhunter. You're probably one of the best our age. But Valentine’s one of the best there ever was. It took a huge battle to bring him down.” 

       “And he didn't actually stay down,” Izzy adds noncommittally, examining her fork tines.

        _D-U-H._

       “But we're here,” Jace says. “We're here and because of the Accords, nobody else is. If we don't do something—” 

       “We are going to do something,” Hodge interjects, “I'll send the Clave a message tonight. They could have a force of Nephilim here by tomorrow if they wanted. They'll take care of this. You have done more than enough.” **Since when has the Clave ever been helpful?** I wonder privately to myself. Jace subsides, but his eyes are still glittering.

       “I don't like it,” the blonde says coolly.

        _Don't have to,_ I sign sourly. _You shut up, not be stupid._

       “But what about my mother?” Clary demands. “She can't wait for some representative from the Clave to show up. Valentine has her right now—Pangborn and Blackwell said so—and he could be…” **Torturing her.**  

       “Hurting her,” Simon finally says. “Except, Clary, they also said she was unconscious and that Valentine wasn't happy about it. He seems to be waiting got her to wake up.” I wrinkle my nose. 

        _Stay out,_ I advise Jocelyn, even if she can't hear me. She'd probably be thinking the same.

       “But that could be any time,” Clary says, ignoring me. “I thought the Clave was pledged to protect people. Shouldn't there be Shadowhunters here right now? Should they already be searching for her?” I roll my eyes at her naivety.

        _Clave useless,_ I sign matter-of-factly. _Not know where look._

       “But we do,” Jace murmurs.

       “You do?” Clary asks, looking at him, both startled and eager to hear what he has to say. “Where?”

       “Here.” Jace leans forwards to touch his fingers to Clary’s temple. “Everything we need to know is locked up in your head, under those pretty red curls.” The redhead reaches up and touches her hair nervously.

       “I don't think—” 

       “So what are you going to do?” Simon asks sharply. “Cut her head open to get at it?” Jace’s eyes flame, but he answers in a neutral tone.

       “Not at all. The Silent Brothers can help her retrieve her memories.”

       “You hate the Silent Brothers,” Izzy protests.

       “I don't hate them,” Jace objects. “I'm afraid of them. It's not the same thing.”

       “I thought you said they were librarians,” Clary says uncertainly. I nod.

        _Watch book,_  I sign airily. Simon whistles.

       “This must be some killer late fees,” he says. I fix him with an exasperated stare.

       “The Silent Brothers are archivists, but that is not all they are,” Hodge explains calmly. “In order to strengthen their minds, they have chosen to take upon themselves some of the most powerful runes ever created. The power of these runes is so great that the use of them—” 

       I make a face and roll my eyes as Hodge breaks off. Seriously, the Silent Brothers aren't that bad. Aside from the fact that I would've had my mind wiped by them seven years ago if it wasn't for Jak kicking a couple Shadowhunters in the crown jewels.

       “Well, it warps and twists their physical forms. They are not warriors in the sense that other Shadowhunters are warriors. Their powers are of the mind, not the body.” Clary frowns.

       “They can read minds?” the petite redhead asks.

       “Among other things,” Hodge replies. I scowl.

        _Mind wipe,_ I singsong in ASL. Hodge shoots me a look.

       “They are among the most feared of all demon hunters.”

       “I don't know,” Simon says doubtfully. “It doesn't sound so bad to me. I'd rather have someone mess around inside my head than chop it off.” I drop my head into my palms before lifting my face in order to sign.

        _Idiot,_ I snap.

       “Jessamine is right,” Isabelle says, ignoring the nasty look I send her at the use of my full name (why, Jace?). “The Silent Brothers are really creepy.” I throw my hands up into the air.

        _No!_ I exclaim in sign. 

       “They are very powerful,” Hodge interrupts smoothly, hands clenching on the table. “They walk in darkness and do not speak, but they can crack open a man's mind the way you might crack open a walnut—and leave him screaming alone in the dark if that is what they desire.” I nod emphatically. Clary looks to Jace, clearly shocked.

       “You want to give me to them?” 

       “I want them to help you,” Jace says, leaning across the table. “Maybe we don't get to look for the Cup,” my blonde wreck of a brother continues softly. “Maybe the Clave will do that. But what's in your mind belongs to you.” I snort. **Nobody said that when they tried to mind wipe Jak and me,** I think to myself bitterly. “Someone's hidden secrets in there, secrets you can't see,” Jace continues, oblivious to my thoughts. “Don't you want to know the truth about your own life?”

       “I don't want someone else inside my head,” Clary replies weakly. I raise an eyebrow. Believe me, we all relate. Although, it’s not like anybody took my wishes into consideration. 

       “I'll go with you,” Jace assures her, oblivious to my darkening mood. “I'll stay with you while they do it.”

       “That's enough,” Simon suddenly interrupts angrily. “Leave her alone.” Alec glances over at Simon, taking his messy black hair out of his eyes, but it's Jace who speaks, rounding on the poor mundane.

       “What are you still doing here, mundane?” Simon ignores the blonde.

       “I said, leave her alone.” My brother’s gaze turns sweetly poisonous.

       “The Institute is sworn to shelter Shadowhunters, not their mundane friends. Especially when they've worn out their welcome.” I glare at Jace.

        _I am not Shadowhunter,_ I sign warningly. Jace either doesn't pay attention to my voice in his head or he just doesn't care. Isabelle stands, taking Simon’s arm.

       “I'll show him out.” Clary stands abruptly, her chair skittering backwards a bit. 

       “I'm tired,” the redhead says. “I want to go to sleep.”

       “You've hardly eaten anything,” Jace protests. I raise an eyebrow, snorting quietly. I hadn't eaten a bite. The petite girl brushes aside Jace’s reaching hand.

       “I'm not hungry.”


	11. Chapter 11

       That night, I avoid Jace and sleep in a window seat. Or, well, try to. Don’t get me wrong, the window seat is comfy, but I’ve had pretty bad insomnia since I was eight. When I finally drift off, my dreams aren’t exactly fluffy unicorns, rainbow cats or smiley kittens. 

        ** _I’m standing in an endless hallway. Demons of all kinds surround me. Shax, Ravener, Hellhounds, Moloch, Oni, Drevak, Du’Sien: you name it and they’re there, slavering and hungering for my blood. Footsteps break the silence, and a man, about six feet tall with a wide build, thick, muscular arms, hard, pointed chin, black eyes and hair so blonde, it’s nearly white, walks out of the shadows. I draw in a breath, because this dream is the like all of the others, the one with Michael Wayland._**

**_“Jessamine, why are you here?” Wayland asks silkily. “Shouldn’t you be training?” A cruel smile curls his lips. “You know, since they're here” —he gestures around to the demons— “maybe you should get some real training in.” As soon as the words leave the man’s mouth, the demons charge. My seraph blade, Jehoel, immediately appears in my hands as the first demon, a Ravener, reaches me._**

**_With a quick slash up, I decapitate it. I haven’t said its name yet, but my blade is already blazing, hungering to kill demons. It feels so real, and so I fall into routine. A demon approaches, locate its weak spot, attack the weak spot. Repeat, and watch out for demons approaching from behind. I begin to tire, sooner than usual, and my quick, agile movements begin to flag. And then I reach the point where I can’t—that’s when the Raum demon lunges past my guard and wraps me in its tentacles._**

**_I yell in pain, the demon poison coursing through me faster than it would in real life, where my mind wasn’t torturing me. A shadow falls over me, and all of a sudden, the Raum demon disappears. Michael Wayland kneels down beside me, a smirk on his face._**

**_“My dear Jessamine,” he murmurs, stroking my orange hair from my face as I convulse on the stone floor. This all feels so real, and I can’t_ wake up _. “If only you knew what you were destined to be. You were born to soar above them all.” He leans in close to whisper in my ear as the demon poison begins to reach my heart._**

**_“Literally,” he murmurs. Everything goes black as the poison overtakes my heart._**

       I wake with a scream and to someone shaking my shoulders. Without thinking, I flip the person and unsheathe a hidden knife up my sleeve, pinning the person underneath me and holding the knife to their throat. When the haze in my head clears, I realize that I’ve pinned Alec Lightwood to the floor. I sigh, climbing off of him.

       “Sorry,” I murmur. Alec smiles weakly at me.

       “Nightmares?” I nod jerkily, not wasting words. Alec doesn't push, just settles down on the window seat. After a moment of hesitation, I ghost over to the black-haired Lightwood’s side, leaning against him in a camaraderie reminiscent of Jace and me. We don’t speak, and I appreciate that, because Alec understands being unwilling to talk about your issues. My eyes droop, and before I know it, they’re shut and darkness overtakes me. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       The next day, I wake up to the face of my annoying, adoptive blonde brother.

       “Wow,” Jace comments. “I never saw this coming.” I flip him off sleepily, yawning. I suddenly sit bolt upright, the events from the previous day coming back to me. They’re about as welcome as a bullet to the brain.

       “Fuck. Alec, wake up.” I shake the aforementioned Lightwood awake, and he stretches immediately, almost hitting me in the face. I hiss, withdrawing instantly.

       “What the—oh, hey Jace,” Alec says. Jace grins amusedly, enjoying this entirely too much.

       “Brother Jeremiah is here,” he informs us. I frown.

       “Is he here for Clary?” The blonde nods as confirmation.

       “He's here for you as well. Something about seven years ago?” I wince.

       “The less said, the better.” Jace pauses a moment, looking at me.

       “Your hair is orange,” he informs me. I curse viciously, holding a chunk up in front of my face. Sure enough, it's completely orange.

       “Dammit, thought it would last longer,” I murmur. Alec sits up, looking at my orange hair weirdly.

       “Since when did that happen?” he asks. I hold up eight fingers with a shrug.

       “Long story. It’s natural. We better go.” Jace leads the way to the library, and when we enter, Clary is already there, along with Brother Jeremiah and Hodge. The Silent Brother wears a robe the color of parchment that goes from neck to foot, covering him completely with the hood up, hiding his face. The intricate runic designs at the hems of the robe look like they've been written in blood. Hodge smiles tightly upon our arrival, the glance that he gives my orange hair not lost to me. 

       “This is Brother Jeremiah of the Silent City,” he introduces. “And this, Jeremiah, are the two girls I wrote to you about. Clarissa Fray” —he points to the redhead— “and Jessamine Wayland.” I scowl, but Alec is the one to correct Hodge.

       “Grace,” the Lightwood says quietly. “Jessa Grace.” I give him a nod of thanks before turning back to the awaiting Silent Brother. Clary has already muttered a hello, so I simply nod. 

       “I decided you were right, Jace,” Hodge directs at the blonde. I raise an eyebrow. That's a first.

       “I was right,” Jace muses, slightly mocking. “I usually am.” I roll my eyes, shooting my brother a skeptical glare.

       “I sent a letter to the Clave about all this last night, but Clary’s memories are her own. Only she can decide now she wants to deal with the contents of her own head. If she wants the help of the Silent Brothers, she should have that choice. And as for Jessamine…” I flinch at the use of my full name. “Well, I dug into her past and discovered an interesting fact about what happened seven years ago.” I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and taking out my stele to draw a speak in tongues rune on the usual spot.

        _Have right,_ I sign. _Like say, memory own. Get decide self._ Hodge glares, turning his nose up.

       “I've discussed the matter with Brother Jeremiah extensively, and we've decided that the best we can do is perform a mind sweep.” I growl lowly, hands already rising to sign.

        _Memory own,_ I repeat forcefully. Hodge nods, but the gesture is empty and cold.

       “Indeed. But, as proven seven years ago, you are a danger to the Clave as long as you remain unmonitored. As Jace would never allow that, the next best thing is to perform a mind sweep.”

       “I don't know what that is,” Clary suddenly speaks up. “But it sounds intrusive and rude. What's so bad about her that she has to be monitored all the time?” I swallow, beckoning for Jace to tell the story. He looks at me uncertainly, and I wave my hand impatiently. **Get it over with.** The blonde swallows.

       “Jessa… well, she’s not exactly a Shadowhunter. Officially, that is. Her mother married a mundane, but she was a Shadowhunter. They both died, so that meant that they had nowhere to go but to my father and me. We’re cousins, technically, but we consider ourselves siblings. She definitely has some sort of Shadowhunter blood, because she can be Marked, but the Clave deemed her and her twin, Jak, dangers to the Shadow World.” Jace swallows.

       “Seven years ago, after my—our—father died, Jessa, Jak and I were all separated. I only found out a couple days ago, but Jessa and Jak were taken to the Silent City.” He looks straight at a Brother Jeremiah. “For mind wipes, because the Clave didn't want them to have any knowledge of the Shadow World. To escape, they may or may not have incapacitated quite a few Shadowhunters and put someone in a coma.” 

       Clary gasps, and I bite my lip, raising my head and holding it high. Hodge nods in satisfaction.

       “As is such, we must perform a memory sweep.” I sigh.

        _Do it,_ I sign sullenly. _But family no harm. Swear._ Hodge looks taken aback, but then I hear the voice of Brother Jeremiah in my head.

        **Do not worry, young Shadowhunter. Your family will remain unharmed, be it blood or strong relations. I swear it on the Angel.**  I nod silently as Brother Jeremiah approaches, hands outstretched. Taking what little time I have, I erect mental walls around some of my memories, concealing them from the Silent Brother. I lean forwards—then his hands touch my temples and I'm falling. 

        ** _I'm cradled in my mother's arms. There's a call, and she turns. I see a blurry figure off to the side._**

**_“They're destined for something big,” the voice says. “We don't know what he did to them, but it's not going to be good.”_**

 

**_“You.” Punch. “Are.” Kick. “Worthless.” Slap. “You hear me, girl? You're useless and no daughter of mine.” My father bends down to sneer at me. Something crashes, and all of a sudden I can't move. “Now watch,” my father murmurs to me, taking out a kitchen knife. “And know that this is all your fault.” The knife lowers to his wrist._**

 

**_Jonathan—Jace and I are sparring. All of a sudden, a searing pain courses through my back and I drop to one knee, Jehoel clattering to the ground. I scream, vision blacking. When it clears, Jak and Jace are peering down at me with worry._**

**_“What's wrong?” Jak asks gently, reaching down to help me up. I look down at his gloved hand instinctively, imagining the burns and scar tissue there before taking it, hauling myself up with a shake of my head._**

 

**_Jak and I are running away from the Shadowhunters, because we want to remember our brother, our cousin, our friend. Even if there are painful memories there too._**

 

**_Magnus hugs me to his chest as I shudder, panicking._**

**_“It's okay, pumpkin,” he says. Magnus always calls me pumpkin. Says it matches the color of my hair. “I can make a glamour. You'll be fine. That will never happen again.”_**

 

**_I roll away from a vampire, Jehoel held out in front of me protectively._**

**_“What are you?” it snarls._**

 

**_Raphael and I chase Jak around, determined to get revenge for the pink, purple and blue glitter stuck in our hair._**

 

**_Catarina guides my hand as I stir in complicated figure eights._**

**_“Phoenix tears can only be stirred like this if they're mixed with kelpie blood. Any other way and you're incinerated.”_**

 

**_“Don't touch that!” Ragnor yells at me as I make to touch a vial._**

 

**_I stand in front of Institute, here only for the Law and to make sure that Magnus, Jak, Raphael, Catarina and Ragnor will be safe._**

       Brother Jeremiah releases me, and I suck in a shuddering breath. Something wet is on my face and I realize that I'm crying. I clap my hands over my mouth, silencing my sobs. I don't cry. Can't cry. Shadowhunters don't cry. The Silent Brother looks at me for one long moment, then retreats to where Hodge stands. Everyone is staring at me. I look up, meet Jace’s eyes—and then I turn on heel and flee the library.


	12. Chapter 12

       An hour later, Alec finds me on the roof. It feels like a week, but the sun hanging in the side says otherwise. 

       “Jace says to meet him at the Jade Wolf,” he says. I'm glad that he doesn't mention my breakdown in the library, doesn’t treat me like something fragile. 

       “I'll get dressed,” I murmur, looking down at the loose, too-big clothes that I'm wearing. They're Alec’s. I smirk. “Give your clothes back too.” Alec smiles slightly, accompanying me inside. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I follow Alec into what I can only assume is his room; it's immaculate, the bed made, dirty clothes in a hamper over in the corner, nothing on the ground. Dialing Magnus, I hold the phone up to my ear.

       “WHO DARES DISTURB—”

       “It's me,” I say shortly, rolling my eyes.

       “Oh. Hello, pumpkin. Do you need extra clothes?”

       “Yeah.”

       “Coming right up.” A duffel bag that I recognize as mine appears beside me.

       “Thanks,” I mutter into the phone. I pause for a moment, thinking. Clary must have had her mind scanned by Brother Jeremiah by now, and discovered who had put the memory charm on her. Knowing Jace, I highly doubt that we’re going to be waiting for the Clave to give the go-ahead before we seek out the warlock who’d placed the charm on the redhead. So I take the plunge. “I might pop in for the party tonight with a few friends. Be nice.”

       “No promises, pumpkin. Bye.” Alec is looking at me strangely when I get off the phone. All I can do is shrug, grabbing the duffle and rummaging through it, settling on black skinny jeans, a band tank top (Green Day, American Idiot) and a jacket that's clearly Jak’s. Alec points out the bathroom and tells me that he'll be waiting downstairs. I change quickly, attaching my gear to the clothes. Inside the jacket goes my cards, shuriken and several daggers.

       Strapped to my lower leg, over my jeans, are my hunting knives; they'll be covered by my boots when I put them on. I don't bring my short swords, but I do stuff my pockets with the things that Magnus packed for me. There's a knock on the bathroom door, and I unlock it. Alec pokes his head in.

       “The mundane just showed up. Iz is sorting him out. We're going ahead.” I nod, stepping out of the bathroom and throwing Alec’s clothes in the hamper. I give the Lightwood a quick glance, frowning at his attire. Honestly, he looked like he'd just gotten out of bed and put clothes on over his pajamas, hair tousled and sticking up wildly. 

       “His name is Simon,” I say as we walk down the hallway, dismissing the tense, hurried air that surrounds the older boy. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       Alec spots Clary and Jace before I do. 

       “Hey!” he calls. I look in the direction that he is, catching sight of a familiar head of red hair. I grin, grabbing Alec’s arm, dragging him over to the two. “Izzy’s on her way,” the Lightwood informs the two. “She's bringing the mundane.”

       “Simon?” Jace questions. “Where did he come from?”

       “He showed up first thing this morning. Couldn't stay away from Izzy, I guess,” Alec replies, sounding slightly amused. I give him an exasperated look, while Clary looks like she's restraining herself from kicking him. “Anyway, are we going in or what?” the Lightwood questions, oblivious to Clary’s murderous look. “I'm starving.” I let out a sigh, and Jace leads us up to the front door, where the blonde says something to a robed man at the front. 

       As we pass by the man, I catch a glimpse of dark red skin and squarish hands that end in blue-black nails. No warlock would work here, so he must be an ifrit. I send the magicless warlock an easy smile, following Clary and Jace into the restaurant. Clary’s whispering something, but when Jace replies, it's in a normal tone.

       “He's an ifrit. They're warlocks with no magic. Half demons who can't cast spells for whatever reason.” We reach an empty booth and Jace slides in followed by Alec. Clary attempts to sit on top of Alec before she realizes that he's sitting there. Face red, she goes and sits on the other side of the booth. I roll my eyes, sliding in and making Alec scoot over. Alec picks up his menu and I read over his shoulder, even though I don't have much of an appetite on good days.

       “Who eats whole raw fish?” Clary suddenly questions.

       “Kelpies,” Alec replies, not even looking up from the menu. “Selkies. Maybe the occasional nixie.”

       “Don't order any of the faerie food,” Jace advises, looking at Clary over the top of his menu. “It tends to make humans a little crazy. One minute you're munching on a faerie plum, the next minute you're running naked down Madison Avenue.” I raise an eyebrow. “Not that this has ever happened to me,” the blonde adds hastily. Alec laughs.

       “Do you remember—” 

       The black-haired Lightwood launches into a story involving an Eidolon demon, a duck and some sort of faerie plum. Jace is looking down as Alec speaks, smiling slightly and tapping his water glass with a fingernail, but he looks up as the waitress passes.

       “Are we ever going to get any coffee?” he asks, interrupting Alec mid sentence. The black-haired boy quiets, previous energy fading just as abruptly as it had appeared. A sinking feeling forms in my chest as I watch him, feeling the heavy weight of expectation hovering over him like a cloud. 

       “I…”

       “What's all the raw meat for?” Clary questions hastily. Couldn’t have had worse timing. The longer this stuff is locked up, the bigger the eventual explosion is going to be. Nevertheless, I lean over to take a look at whatever the redhead is reading, and Jace does too.

       “Werewolves,” the blonde says. “Though I don't mind a bloody steak myself every once in awhile.” I flip Clary's menu over on Jace’s instructions. “Human food is on the back,” the blonde explains. There's a moment of silence in which I steal Alec’s menu, looking at the coffee they have here.

       “They have smoothies here?” Clary suddenly asks, breaking the silence once again. Like we’re not allowed to have a moment of peace and quiet anymore.

       “There's this apricot-plum smoothie with wildflower honey that simply divine,” Izzy says as she appears, Simon at her side. “Shove over,” she commands Clary, who obliges, scouting close to the wall. Simon slides in next to Isabelle, who's beside Clary, and offers the redhead a slightly embarrassed smile that she doesn't return. “You should have one. How did it go at the Bone City?” The Lightwood girl opens her menu casually. “Did you find out what's in Clary’s head?”

       “We got a name,” Jace says. “Magnus—”

       “Shut up!” Alec hisses, whacking Jace with a menu. I choke on my water as dread settles into my stomach, despite my prediction earlier. Jace looks exaggeratedly wounded.

       “Jesus.” My over dramatic twit of an adoptive brother rubs his arm. “What your problem?”

       “This place is full of Downworlders,” Alec hisses. “You know that. I think you should try to keep the details of our investigation secret.”

       “Investigation?” Izzy asks, laughing. “Now we're detectives? Maybe we should all have code names.”

       “Good idea,” Jace replies. “I shall be Baron Hotschaft Von Hugenstein.” Alec spits his water back into his glass, and I choke on my own. Alec gives me a hard pat on the back and the water spews back into the glass. I give him a thumbs up. At that moment, the waitress arrives to take our orders.

       “Know what you're having?” she asks sweetly, eyes on my brother. Jace grins.

       “The usual,” he replies, earning himself a smile from the waitress. “Also, one plain black coffee.” I shoot the blonde a thumbs up.

       “The usual for me too,” Alec chimes in. He doesn't get the smile. Isabelle orders a fruit smoothie, Simon asks for a coffee and Clary hesitates for a moment before ordering a large coffee and coconut pancakes. The waitress winks a blue eye and flounces off. I groan, running my hands over my face. **Cofffffeeeeee**.

       “Is she an ifrit too?” Clary asks, watching the waitress.

       “Kaelie?” Jace asks. “No. Part fey, I think.”

       “She's got nixie eyes,” Izzy adds thoughtfully.

       “You really don't know what she is?” Simon asks doubtfully. Jace shakes his golden head.

       “I respect her privacy.” He nudges Alec. “Hey, let me out for a second.” Alec and I both stand up so Jace can leave. Isabelle rolls her eyes as Alec and I sit back down, watching Jace go over to the waitress he called Kaelie.

       “He really shouldn't tease the waitstaff like that.” Alec glances at his sister, but it’s a distracted sort of look.

       “You don't think he means it? That he likes her, I mean?” Clary questions.

       “She's a Downworlder,” Isabelle replies, shrugging, like that single word explained everything. I roll my eyes again. These guys are fairly nice, but they haven't escaped the bigotry. 

       “I don't get it,” Clary declares. Isabelle glances at her blankly.

       “Get what?”

       “This whole Downworlder thing,” the redhead replies. “You don't hunt them, because they aren't exactly demons, but they're not exactly people, either. Vampires kill; they drink blood—” 

       I shake my head, nudging Alec. “Only rogue vampires drink human blood from living people,” Alec explains. “And those, we're allowed to kill.”

       “And werewolves are what? Just overgrown puppies?”

       “They kill demons,” Izzy replies matter-of-factly. “So if they don't bother us, we don't bother them.”

       “So they're good enough to let live, good enough to make your food for you, good enough to flirt with—but not really good enough? I mean, not as good as people?” the petite girl questions. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

        _Put this way—_

       “Since when did you have orange hair?” Clary interrupts. I frown.

        _Dye. D-U-H._

       “Different from people,” Alec says, clearing up the previous topic of discussion that wasn't my hair.

       “Better than mundanes?” Simon asks. I shake my head.

       “You could turn a mundane into a Shadowhunter,” Izzy adds. “I mean, we came from mundane. But you could never turn a Downworlder into one of the Clave. They can't withstand the runes.”

       “So they're weak?” Clary asks cautiously.

       “I wouldn't say that,” Jace says, sliding back into the booth so that he's next to me. “At least, not with a peri, a djinn, and ifrit and God knows what else listening in.” I roll my eyes as Kaelie reappears with our orders. Everyone digs in, and Clary looks like she's in heaven. I take a large sip of my still piping-hot coffee. “I told you it was the greatest restaurant in Manhattan,” Jace says.

       “Mmmf,” Alec agrees, mouth full.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       “Right,” Jace says once everyone's finished their first attack on the food. “It's not one way. We may not always like Downworlder, but they don't always like us, either. A few hundred years of the Accords can't wipe out a thousand years of hostility.” I nod in agreement, thinking of Magnus, Catarina, Raphael and Ragnor.

       “I'm sure she doesn't know what the Accords are, Jace,” Izzy comments around her spoon.

       “I do, actually,” Clary informs everyone.

       “I don't,” Simon says.

       “Yes, but nobody cares about what you know,” Jace replies, eating a French fry. I send the blonde a mildly irritated glare. “I enjoy the company of certain Downworlders at certain times and places,” my brother continues. “But we don't really get invited to the same parties.”

       “Wait!” Isabelle says, sitting up straight. I take another gulp of my coffee. “What did you say that name was?” the female Lightwood demands, looking to Jace. “The name in Clary’s head.”

       “I didn't,” the blonde replies. “At least, I didn't finish it. It's Magnus Bane.” My brother grins at Alec, mocking him. “Rhymes with ‘overcareful pain in the ass.’” Alec mutters a retort that goes somewhat along the lines of ‘fucking asshole.’

       “It can't be—but I'm almost totally sure—” 

       Isabelle is digging around in her purse before she finally produces a folded piece of blue paper. I recognize it immediately as the Lightwood wiggles it in her fingers.

       “Look at this.” Alec takes it, glances at it with a shrug and hands it to Jace.

       “It's a party invitation. For somewhere in Brooklyn.” The black-haired Shadowhunter pauses. “I hate Brooklyn.”

       “Don't be such a snob,” Jace replies. I nod.

        _Live there_ , I inform them. I turn to Izzy. _Where get?_

       “From a kelpie in Pandemonium,” Isabelle replies. “He said it would be awesome. He had a whole stack of them.”

       “What is it?” Clary demands impatiently. “Are you going to show the rest of us or not?” Jace turns it around and holds it up for everyone on the other side of the table to read.

       “Magnus?” Simon asks. “Magnus, like Magnus Bane?”

        _Him_ , I confirm, reaching over to grab the invitation. _Sparkle mess with memory long time_ , I tell Clary. Everyone stares. I shrug. _Live with him._


	13. Chapter 13

       I'm curled up in a nook in the music room, hiding from everyone until it's time to go. Jace pokes his head in without warning.

       “Nearly time to go,” he informs me. “You should clean up.” I shake my head in reply, standing in order to show him that I've already changed, dressed in black skinnies, tank top and a light gray sweater.

       “Mags won't mind if I'm not dressed up,” I say. “He'll pretend to, but he really doesn't.” Jace nods distractedly, glancing out and down the hallway.

       “Alright. Come wait with me.” I follow him down the elevator, then into the Institute’s entryway, where Alec and Simon are already waiting. I yawn, stretching. To at least give the vague illusion that I actually care, I braid my long orange hair, and twist the top of it up, leaving a sort of braid ponytail-bun hybrid.

       Sticking my hunting knives into their sheathes on my lower leg, I pull on my boots, concealing them and the light armor that I'm wearing underneath the jeans. I may be dressed casually, but I'm armed and ready for a fight; armguards underneath my jacket, knives in my boots, cards tucked into my jacket and four daggers lining the inside. When Clary and Isabelle finally step out of the elevator, Simon gapes for a moment. He has a good reason to. The redhead of the pair is dressed in a tight black dress and heels, backpack slung over her shoulder.

       Isabelle is wearing all silver, with gold nails and silver beads in her hair. It makes me wonder how fast she had to move to pull the outfit together. Me? I prefer to stick to my skinnies and band shirts. There’s been a few occasions in which I’ve indugled myself in dresses and skirts, but I was a Shadowhunter. Shadowhunters needed to be prepared, and that meant that I couldn’t wear anything that might hinder me if the need to fight arose. 

       “What is that?” Simon demands, straightening up as he stares at Clary. “That you're wearing, I mean.” The redhead glances down at her clothes.

       “It's a dress, Simon,” she remarks dryly. “I know I don't wear them that much, but really.” 

       “It's so short,” Simon says, still looking confused. I smirk slightly, shoving my stele through my hair to keep it in place as I finish drawing a speak in tongues rune.

       “I like the dress,” Jace compliments as he approaches Clary. “It needs a little something extra, though.”

       “So now you're a fashion expert?” the redhead asks sarcastically. There’s a lot of it goin around tonight, not just from her. The blonde takes a dagger out of his coat and hands it to the petite girl. She shakes her head. “I wouldn't even know how to use that—” 

       Jace presses it into her hand.

       “You'd learn.”

       “All right,” Clary says hesitantly.

       “I could give you a thigh sheath to put that in,” Izzy offers. “I've got tons.”

       “CERTAINLY NOT!” Simon replies, answering for Clary before she can even open her mouth. 

       “Thanks, but I'm not really a thigh sheath kind of girl,” Clary says, calmer than Simon, slipping the dagger into her backpack.

       “And one last thing,” Jace adds, reaching over and pulling a couple pins out of Clary’s hair. Waves of red tumble down onto the petite girl's shoulder. “Much better,” the blonde remarks, satisfied. I raise an eyebrow at my brother, but make no comment. 

~~~~~

       I give Isabelle Magnus’ address, and the girl enters it into her Sensor-turned-GPS. The demon-sensing machine takes us into an industrial neighborhood, the streets lined with factories and warehouses. We make our way to the subway station, Clary lagging slightly. I fall back to talk to her.

        _O-K?_ I ask her.

       “Yeah, I think so,” the redhead murmurs back. “It's just all so new and…” I nod.

        _Remember when five. Feel same._ Clary gives a small laugh.

       “You do realize that that is in no universe similar to being introduced to all of this at sixteen—well, nearly, anyways?” I raise my eyebrow doubtfully. There’s not much of a difference, although, granted, she’d lasted longer thinking that she’d been a mundane. But still, her experience isn’t exactly one of a kind, and she should quit moping and try to adjust. 

       “Keep up,” Jace calls back irritably. “I don't want to keep looking behind me to make sure nothing's happened to you.”

        _Do not bother_ , I sign at his back, trying to make it metaphorically loud.

       “Last time I left Clary alone, a demon attacked her,” my brother points out. I roll my eyes, pointing at myself. Nice to know how much faith my brother had in my skills, which rivaled his. 

       “Well, I'd certainly hate to interrupt your pleasant night stroll with my sudden death,” Clary replies bitingly. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I watch Jace blink, astonished. It’s not often he’s silenced, and I savor the moments when he is. 

       “There is a fine line between sarcasm and outright hostility, and you seem to have crossed it,” the blonde declares. “What's up?” I hurry up a bit until I'm walking beside Alec. The two of us walk in silence for a good few blocks, until Isabelle calls out that we're here.

       “This is the right street!” the female Lightwood declares. I turn right without thinking, hurrying up the front steps of Magnus’ apartment, weaving around quite a few vampire motorcycles as I do.

       “Vampires,” Jace mutters. I glance behind me, making a face.

        _Yes. Go in?_

       “They look like motorcycles to me,” Simon comments, walking over with Isabelle at his side. I sigh impatiently. 

       “They are, but they've been altered to run on demon energies,” Izzy explains to the mundane. “Vampires use them—it lets them get around fast at night. It's not strictly Covenant, but…”

       “I've heard that some of the bikes can fly,” Alec comments. “Or go invisible at the flick of a switch, or operate underwater.” I screw my face up and shake my head at the eldest Lightwood. Jace jumps off of the curb and circles the bikes, like a predator playing with its prey.

       “‘Victorious Night,’” he reads from the bikes. He turns abruptly, looking at me. “Are you sure this is Magnus Bane’s apartment?” I give him a deadpan look that clearly says ‘uh, duh.’ Isabelle pushes past me and presses the buzzer once, then twice. The black-haired girl is about to press it for the third time, but Alec catches her wrist.

       “Don't be rude” he says. The younger Lightwood glares.

       “Alec—” 

       I push past the two and knock loudly. It flies open at once to reveal Magnus. Everyone stares for a moment, surprised, but Isabelle is the first to recover besides me, flashing the warlock a brilliant smile.

       “Magnus? Magnus Bane?”

       “That would be me,” the male warlock replied. I roll my eyes, shivering slightly from the cold.

        _Hurry_ , I beg Magnus.

       “Children of the Nephilim,” he says, ignoring me, eyes taking in our little group. I notice that his gaze lingers on Alec. “Well, well. I don't recall inviting you.” I roll my eyes again and take out the invitation, handing it to Magnus.

        _Invite_ , I sign. _Me, coming._ I glance behind me. _Angel. Pocket,_ I command, spotting the stele that the blonde has out. Magnus looks at the invitation gloomily.

       “I must have been drunk,” he decides. I snort as he throws the foot open. “Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests.” I enter first, rubbing my arms to warm up, Jace at my heels.

       “Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?”

       “Even then,” Magnus replies flatly.

       I grab Magnus’ arm as the others file in.

        _Fire?_ I question. Magnus shrugs.

       “Dancing, probably.” Magnus starts up the stairs, leaving Jace holding the door.

       “Come on,” he says. “Before anyone thinks it's my party.” They push past the blonde and I turn towards my brother.

        _No piss off,_ I sign commandingly.

       “I know what I'm doing,” Jace replies, looking bored.

        _Hope so,_ I snap, whirling around to follow the others up the stairs. The apartment is full of Downworlder and people I don't know, which is unsettling. Clary, however, looks amazed, so I let her be, dragging a chair up to stand on in order to find Jak. He's in the middle of the crowd, dancing with a boy, grinding back on him filthily. Yes, that's my gay twin brother. I roll my eyes, hopping down and slipping through the crowd of writhing bodies in order to grab him and drag him away. 

       “Hey!” he complains. Then he sees me. “Oh, Jessa!” He hugs me, then holds me at arm's length. My twin wears a tight white tank and black skinnies, a varsity jacket over the top and a pair of red fingerless gloves covering his hands. The silver in his black hair looks brown under the green lights. Jace suddenly appears, Clary  and Alec in tow.

       “Holy fuck, Jessa really wasn't lying when she said you were alive,” Jace says, embracing Jak. The two boys are about the same height with a similar build. The blonde leads us through the crowd and over to the side, where Magnus leans against a nearby pillar. “Look,” my blonde brother says to the warlock, “we really need to talk to—” 

       “MAGNUS BANE!” a voice booms. I sigh, shaking my arms a bit and letting my sheathed knives slip out of my sleeves discreetly. A vampire approaches us—or rather, Magnus. “Someone just poured holy water into the gas tank on my bike,” the big, undead guy complains. “It's ruined. Destroyed. All the pipes are melted.”

       “Melted?” Magnus murmurs. “How dreadful.”

       “I want to know who did it,” the vampire demands, baring pointy teeth. “I thought you swore there'd be no wolf-men here tonight, Bane.”

       “I invited none of the Moon’s Children,” Magnus replies coolly, examining his nails. “Precisely because of your stupid little feud. If any of them decided to sabotage your bike, they weren't a guest of mine, and therefore” —Manus gives the vampire a lazy ‘I don't care’ smile— “not my responsibility.” The vampires roars with rage, jabbing a finger towards the warlock.

       “Are you trying to tell me that—” 

       Magnus’ glitter-coated index finger twitches barely a fraction. Mid-road, the vampire gags and clutches its throat. Apparently, his mouth works, but not his vocal cords.

       “You've worn out your welcome,” Magnus informs the vampire lazily, eyes wide. They've reverted back to his natural yellow cat eyes. “Now go.” The warlock splays the fingers of his right hand and the vampire turns and walks off, still under Magnus’ control. Jace whistles under his breath.

       “That was impressive.”

       “You mean that little hissy fit?” Magnus asks, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling while I sheathe my knives. “I know. What is his problem?” Alec makes a choking noise that sounds vaguely like a laugh.

       “We put the hold water in his gas tank, you know,” he admits.

       “ALEC,” Jace says. “Shut up.”

       “I assumed that,” my adoptive warlock father replies. “Vindictive little bastards, aren't you? You know their bikes run on demon energies. I doubt he'll be able to repair it.” 

       “One less leech with a fancy ride,” Jace remarks dryly. “My heart bleeds.” Magnus grins, cat eyes glittering.

       “So is that why you wanted to crash my party? Just to wreck some bloodsucker bikes?”

       “No,” Jace replies, all business. “We need to talk to you. Preferably somewhere private.” Magnus raises a glittery eyebrow.

       “Am I in trouble with the Clave?”

       “No.” A pause.

       “Probably not,” my twin corrects Jace. I grin.

       “No,” Jace repeats. “We can talk to you under the seal of the Covenant. If you help us, anything you say will be confidential.”

       “And if I don't help you?” the warlock questions. Jace spreads his hands innocently.

       “Maybe nothing. Maybe a visit from the Silent City.” Jak sighs, holding onto me firmly to prevent me from punching Jace. My brother he may be, but he's still an annoying, slightly (okay, more than slightly) bigoted ass sometimes.

       “That's quite a choice you're offering me, little Shadowhunter,” Magnus replies smoothly.

       “It's not a choice at all,” Jace replies.

       “Yes,” Magnus agrees. “That's exactly what I meant.” My adoptive warlock father pushes off of the pillar and leads us into his bedroom. On the way there, I stop by my room and grab Jehoel.

       “Nice place,” Jace comments, drawing a curtain aside. “Guess it pays well, being the High Warlock of Brooklyn?”

       “It pays,” Magnus replies with a sigh. “Not much of a benefit package, tough. No dental or insurance for kids who show up in the middle of the night.” Jak and I both roll our eyes as the warlock shuts the door. “What's on your devious little minds?” Magnus asks, turning to the Shadowhunters.

       “It's not them, actually,” Clary interjects before Jace can open his big mouth. “I'm the one who wanted to talk to you.” Magnus turns to her, recognition flitting through his eyes quickly before it's gone as fast as it had come.


	14. Chapter 14

       “You are not one of them,” Magnus comments. “Not of the Clave. But you can see the Invisible World.”

       “My mother was one of the Clave,” Clary replies. “But she never told me. She kept it a secret. I don't know why.” I have to struggle not to exchange knowing looks with Jak or Magnus.

       “So ask her,” the warlock says indifferently, replying to Clary’s earlier statement.

       “I can't,” Clary replies. “She's… She's gone.”

       “And your father?” Magnus asks, knowing full well that Clary doesn't have one.

       “He died before I was born.” Magnus exhales irritably.

       “As Oscar Wilde once said, ‘To lose one parent maybe regarded as a misfortune. To lose both seems like carelessness.’” I roll my eyes at my adoptive warlock dad's antics as Jak stifles a laugh, probably remembering the last time that line was spoken in this apartment.

       “I didn't lose my mother,” Clary snaps. “She was taken from me. By Valentine.” Jak and I sober instantly.

       “I don't know any Valentine,” Magnus replies. “I'm sorry for your tragic circumstances, but I fail to see what any of this has to do with me. If you could tell me—” 

       “She can't tell you, because she doesn't remember,” Jace says sharply. “Someone erased her memories. So we went to the Silent City to see what the Brothers could pull out of her head. They got two words. I think you can guess what they were.” There's a short silence before Magnus speaks.

       “My signature,” the warlock says softly. “I knew it was folly when I did it. An act of hubris…”

       “You signed my mind?” Clary asks, perplexed. Magnus lifts a hand, tracing fiery letters into the air. MAGNUS BANE.

       “I was proud of my work on you,” he says slowly, eyes on Clary. “So clean. So perfect. What you saw you would forget, even as you saw it. No image of pixie or goblin or long-legged beastie would remain to trouble your blameless mortal sleep. It was the way she wanted it.”

       “The way who wanted it?” the redhead demands. Magnus sighs.

       “Your mother,” he replied shortly.

       “My mother did this to me?” Clary asks, aghast. Jak and I both bite our lips guiltily. “Why?” the petite girl demands.

       “I don't know,” Magnus replies, spreading his ringed hands. “It's not my job to ask questions. I do what I get paid to do.”

       “Within the bounds of the Covenant,” Jace reminds my warlock father. Magnus inclines his head by way of acknowledgment.

       “Within the bounds of the Covenant, of course.”

       “So the Covenant’s all right with this—this mind rape?” Carly queries bitterly. I roll my eyes.

        _Mind wipe, memory sweep_ , I remind her. I make to sit down on one of Magnus’ soft chairs, but give a quiet squeal when I realize that I've almost sat on Chairman Meow, who's blending into the soft material. I scoop the cat up and stroke him, settling down into the chair after checking it for any other cats.

       “Was it only once?” Clary asks Magnus regarding the memory wipes. “Was there something specific she wanted me to forget? Do you know what it was?” Magnus begins to pace.

       “I don't think you understand. The first time I ever saw you, you must have been about two years old. I was watching out this window” —he taps the glass as he passes by— “and I saw her hurrying up the street, holding something wrapped in a blanket. I was surprised when she stopped at my door. She looks to ordinary, so young. She unwrapped the blanket when she came to my door. You were inside it. She set you down on the floor and you started ranging around, picking things up, pulling my cat’s tail—you screamed like a banshee when the cat scratched you, so I asked your mother if you were part banshee. She didn't laugh.” 

       Magnus pauses, something sad in his eyes. The others are looking and listening to Magnus closely, while Jak and I watch them. We've heard this story before.

       “She told me she was a Shadowhunter. There was no point in her lying about it; Covenant Marks show up, even when they're faded with time, like faint silver scars against the skin. They flickered when she moved.” The warlock rubs at the glitter around his eyes, hands coming away covered in the stuff. “She told me she'd hoped you'd been born with a blind Inner Eye—some Shadowhunters have to be taught to see the Shadow World. But she'd caught you that afternoon, teasing a pixie trapped in a hedge. She knew you could see. So she asked me if it was possible to blind you of the Sight.” 

       Clary makes a little noise, of despair or betrayal I have no clue.

       “I told her that crippling that part of your mind might leave you damaged, possibly insane. She didn't cry. She wasn't the sort of woman who weeps easily, your mother. She asked me if there was another way, and I told her you could be made to forget those parts of the Shadow World that you could see, even as you saw them. The only caveat was that she'd have to come to me every two years as the results of the spell began to fade.”

       “And did she?” Clary queries. Magnus nods wordlessly.

       “We've seen you every two years since that first time—we've watched you grow up. You're the only child I have ever watched grow up that way, you know, besides Jak and Jessa. In my business one isn't generally welcome around human children.”

       “So you recognized Clary when we walked in?” Jace questions. “And Jessa recognized her in the storage room? You must have.”

       “Of course we did,” Magnus says exasperatedly as I nod. “And it was a shock, too. But what would you have done? She didn't know us. She wasn't supposed to know us. Just the fact that she was here meant the spell had started to fade—and in fact, we were due for another visit about a month ago. I even came by your house when I got back from Tanzania, but Jocelyn said that you two had had a fight and you'd run off. She said she'd call me when you came back, but” —a shrug— “she never did.”

       “You were there that day,” Clary suddenly murmurs. “I saw you coming out of Dorothea’s apartment. I remember your eyes.” Magnus looks extremely happy. Dear god, with the combination of Magnus’ growing ego and Jak’s growing size, how the hell am I going to fit into this apartment anymore?

       “I'm very memorable, it's true,” Magnus gloats. Then his smile drops and he frowns, shaking his head. “You shouldn't remember me,” he says. “I threw up a glamour as hard as a wall as soon as I saw you. You should have fun right into it face-first—physically speaking.” I cough, glancing at Jak. My silver and black-haired twin grins. 

       “If you run into a psychic wall race-fist, do you wind up with psychic bruises?” Jak asks innocently. I high-five him with a grin. Nobody else looks amused. Jak shrugs. “It’s a valid question, which I would very much like to know the answer to.” 

       “If you take the spell off me, will I be able to remember all the things I've forgotten?” Clary asks, ignoring him. “All the memories you stole?”

       “I can't take if off you,” my adopted warlock dad replies looking vaguely uncomfortable.

       “What?” Jace demands, sounding pissed. “Why not? The Clave requires you—” 

       Magnus pins my blabbermouth of a brother with a cold stare. Jak raises an eyebrow. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think that meeting Clary had turned Jace into a bit of a dick. 

       “I don't like being told what to do, little Shadowhunter,” the warlock says dangerously.

       “Don't you know how to reverse it?” Alec asks softly, and much more tactfully than my brother. “The spell, I mean.” Magnus sighs.

       “Undoing a spell is a great deal more difficult than creating it in the first place. The intricacy of this one, the care I put into weaving it—if I made even the smallest mistake in unraveling it, her mind would be damaged forever. Besides,” the warlock adds, “it's already begun to fade. The effects will vanish over time on their own.” Clary looks at him sharply.

       “Will I get  all my memories back then?” the redhead questions. “Whatever was taken out of my head?”

       “I don't know,” Magnus answers honestly. “They might come back all at once, or in stages. Or you might never remember what you've forgotten over the years. What your mother asked me to do was unique, in my experience. I've no idea what will happen.”

       “But I don't want to wait.” The redhead sounds a bit like a whiny two-year-old as she folds her hands in her lap tightly. “All my life I've felt like there was something wrong with me. Something missing or damaged. Now I know—” 

       “You're not damaged,” Magnus says sharply. “Every teenager in the world feels like that, feels broken or out of place, different somehow, royalty mistakenly born into a family of peasants. The difference in your case is that it's true. You are different. Maybe not better—but different. And it's no picnic being different. You want to know what it's like when your parents are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil’s mark?” Magnus spreads his fingers as he points to his eyes.

       “When your father flinches at the sight of you and your mother hangs herself in the barn, driven mad by what she's done? When I was ten, my father tried to drown me in the creek. I lashed out at him with everything I had—burned him where he stood. I went to the fathers of the church eventually, for sanctuary. They hid me. They say that pity's a bitter thing, but it's better than hate. When I found out what I was really, only half a human being, I hated myself. Anything's better than that.” I hear Magnus’ unsaid words whispered in my ear.

        **Look at them. They don't know what they are. They're shunned everywhere they go, and they don't even fit in with the mundanes.**  I feel like it would’ve been better if he’d looked directly at me and said those things, because we both know that he’s thinking them. There's a silence, and it's Alec who breaks it.

       “It wasn't your fault,” the Lightwood boy says. “You can't help how you're born.” Magnus’ expression is welded shut behind miles and miles worth of shutters, locks, bolts and doors.

       “I'm over it,” he says flatly. “I think you get my point. Different isn't better, Clarissa. Your mother was trying to protect you. Don't throw it back in her face.” Clary’s hands relax on her lap.

       “I don't care if I'm different,” she says flatly. “I just want to be who I really am.” Magnus swears in a foreign language. I stay silent, even as I think that that’s what we all want to know, and that she can’t just whine it like a spoilt brat and expect to get results. 

       “All right. Listen. I can't undo what I've done, but I can give you something else. A piece of what would be yours if you'd been raised a true child of the Nephilim.” Magnus nods to me, and I go into my room to pull a book off of the shelf, handing the book to Magnus when I return. Jace’s eyebrows attempt to become one with his hairline at the sight of the book.

       “Is that a copy of the Gray Book?” Magnus doesn't reply.

       “Hodge has one,” Alec comments. “He showed it to me once.”

       “It's not grey,” Clary points out. “It's green.” I roll my eyes.

       “If there was such a thing as terminal literalism, you'd have died in childhood,” Jace replies. “Gray is short for ‘Gramarye.’ It means ‘magic, hidden wisdom.’ In it is copied ever rune the Angel Raziel wrote in the original Book of the Covenant. There aren't many copies because each one has to be specially made. Some of the runes are so powerful they burn through regular pages.” Alec looks faintly impressed.

       “I didn't know all that.”

       “Not all of us sleep through history lessons,” Jace replies flippantly, hopping up to the windowsill and swinging his legs like a five-year-old.

       “I do not—” 

       “Oh, yes you do, and drool on the desk besides.”

       “Shut up,” Magnus and Jak say in unison, but in a mild tone. Magnus prepares to open the book and goes over to Clary, setting the book in her lap.

       “Now, when I open the book, I want you to study that page. Look at it until you feel something change inside your mind.”

       “Will it hurt?” Clary questions, visibly nervous.

       “All knowledge hurts,” Magnus replies ominously, standing and letting the book fall open. The petite girl stares at the book for some time. Then she flips the page, then the next, the next and the next and the— 

       “That's enough,” Magnus says, taking the book and handing it to Jak. “If you read all the runes at once, you'll give yourself a headache.”

       “But—” 

       “Most Shadowhunter children grow up learning one rune at a time over a period of years,” Jace explains. “The Gray Book contains runes even I don't know.” Score one for Jace’s overinflated ego. “Magnus showed you the runes for understanding and remembrance. It opens your mind up to reading and recognizing the rest of the Marks.”

       “It also may serve as a trigger to activate dormant memories,” Magnus adds. “They could return to you more quickly otherwise. It's the best I can do.” Clary looks down at her lap again.

       “I still don't remember anything about the Mortal Cup.” I make a face.

        _Not going appear. Take time. Wait._ Magnus and Jak both look confused.

       “Is that what this is about?” the warlock asks, astonished. “You're after the Angel’s Cup? Look, I've been through your memories. There's nothing in them about the Mortal Instruments.”


	15. Chapter 15

       “Mortal Instruments?” Clary echoes, bewilderment coloring her tone. “I thought—”

        _Cup, sword, mirror,_ I sign.

       “The Angel gave three items to the first Shadowhunters,” Jak explains more extensively. “A cup, a sword and a mirror. The Silent Brothers have the Sword; the Cup and the Mirror were in Idris, at least until Valentine came along.”

       “Nobody knows where the Mirror is,” Alec interjects. “Nobody's known for ages.”

       “It's the Cup that concerns us,” Jace says. “Valentine's looking for it.”

       “And you want to get to it before he does?” Magnus guesses.

       “I thought you said you didn't know who Valentine was,” Clary points out.

       “I lied,” Magnis admits shamelessly. “I'm not one of the fey, you know. I'm not required to be truthful. And only a fool would get between Valentine and his revenge.”

       “Is that what he's after?” Jace asks skeptically. “Revenge?” 

       “I would guess so,” Magnus replies calmly. “He suffered a grave defeat, and he hardly seemed—seems—the type of man to suffer defeat gracefully.” Alec looks at Magnus thoughtfully.

       “Were you in the Uprising?” Magnus’ yellow cat eyes lock with Alec’s blue ones.

       “I was,” he says in a steady tone. “I killed a number of your folk.”

       “Circle members,” Jace says quickly. “Not ours—” 

       I shake my head negative. _Our people_ , I sign firmly. _Shadowhunter_.

       “If you insist on disavowing that which is ugly about what you do,” Magnus adds, eyes still glued to Alec, “you will never learn from you mistakes.” Alec flushes bright red.

       “You don't seem surprised to hear that Valentine's still alive,” he says, avoiding Magnus’ cat-eyed gaze. Magnus spreads both hands wide.

       “Are you?” Jace opens his mouth, then closes it again.

       “So you won't help us find the Mortal Cup?”

       “I wouldn't if I could,” Magnus states bluntly. “Which, by the way, I can't. I've no idea where it is, and I don't care to know. Only a fool, as I said.” Alec sits up.

       “But without the Cup, we can't—” 

       “Make more of you, I know,” Magnus interrupts tiredly. “Perhaps not everyone regards that as quote the disaster that you do. Mind you,” he adds, “if I had to choose between the Clave and Valentine, I would choose the Clave. At least they're not actually sworn to wipe out my kind. But nothing the Clave has done has earned my unswerving loyalty either. So no, I'll sit this one out. Now if we're done here, I'd like to get back to my party before any of the guests eat each other.” I wince as I recall the one time that that had happened. Jak does the same. Jace looks furious, but Alec places a calming hand on his shoulder.

       “Is that likely?” he asks.

       “It's happened before,” Jak says dismissively. Magnus snaps his fingers impatiently from the doorway.

       “Move it along, teenagers. The only person who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self.”

       “And us,” Jak interjects jokingly. I roll my eyes.

        _Only when drunk out mind, idiot._  

       “Canoodle?” Clary repeats, confused.

       “Magnificent?” Jace repeats, just being nasty. I flip him off and grab Magnus’ arm. The warlock glances at my orange hair, before snapping and materializing a bottle filled with a brown liquid, which he hands to me. I give him a thumbs up and follow the others out of the room. Magnus pauses the lock the bedroom door behind him before trailing behind the group.

       “I hate faerie bands,” he mutters as the musicians begin another haunting song. “All they ever play is mopey ballads.” Jace laughs.

       “Where's Isabelle?” Clary asks, spinning around to look for her. “I don't see him. Them, I mean.” For a moment, I wonder why Isabelle’s pronouns are suddenly male, before realizing that she’s talking about Simon.

       “There she is,” Alec says, spotting the black-haired Shadowhunter and waving her over with a relieved look on his face. “Over here. And watch out for the phouka.”

       “Watch out for the phouka?” Jade repeats, looking vaguely perplexed.

       “He pinched me when I passed him earlier,” Alec replies stiffly. “In a highly personal area.” I stifle a laugh.

       “I hate to break it to you, but if he's interested in your highly personal areas, he probably isn't interested in your sister’s,” Clary cuts in.

       “Not exactly,” Jak comments. “Faeries aren't particular. There was this one time when I—” 

       I clap my hand over his mouth, standing on my toes to perform the action and sending my idiot twin a nasty glare. Isabelle suddenly stumbles back, smelling like alcohol.

       “Jace! Alec! Where have you been? I've been looking all over—” 

       “Where's Simon?” Clary asks, ignoring Isabelle’s ramblings.

       “He's a rat,” the female Shadowhunter replies, staggering.

       “Did he do something to you?” Alec demands, sounding like the protective older brother that he is. “Did he touch you? If he tried anything—” 

       “No, Alec,” Izzy replies irritably. “Not like that. He's a rat.”

       “She's drunk,” Jace says dismissively, even as I turn to Magnus in order to look at him accusingly.

       “I'm not,” Izzy insists indignantly. She pauses. “Well, maybe a little, but that's not the point. The point is, Simon drank one of those blue drinks—I told him not to, but he didn't listen—and he turned into a rat.”

       “A rat?” Clary repeats incredulously. “You don't mean…”

       “I mean a rat,” Izzy replies bluntly. “Little. Brown. Scaly tail.”

       “The Clave isn't going to like this,” Alec grumps. “I'm pretty sure turning mundane into rats is against the Law.” I think back amusedly to when Magnus, Jak and I had all met and what the warlock had done to the Shadowhunters. Magnus is grinning too.

       “Technically she didn't turn him into a rat,” Jak points out. “The worst she could be accused of is negligence.” 

       “Who cares about the stupid Law!” Clary yells, grabbing Isabelle’s wrist tightly. “My best friend is a rat!”

       “Ouch!” Isabelle yelps, attempting to pull her wrist back fruitlessly. “Let go of me!”

       “Not until you tell me where he is,” the redhead growls. “I can't believe you just left him—he's probably terrified—” 

       “If he hasn't been stepped on,” Jace points out helpfully (not). I pinch him sharply. But you’ve gotta admit, Clary’s being a bit over dramatic. He’s just a rat. Not something terribly inconventient, like an ant. 

       “I didn't leave him,” Izzy protests. “He ran under the bar.” The female Shadowhunter points. “Let go! You're denting my bracelet.”

       “Bitch,” Clary snarls, flinging Isabelle's hand back at her, hard. Sweetheart, we all know your pissed, but it was an honest mistake. E the one being a little more than a little bit of a bitch. The petite girl runs to the bar, the rest of us at her heels. When she arrives, the girl kneels down, peering under the bar.

       “Is he under there?” Jace asks curiously. Clary nods in confirmation.

       “Shh. You'll frighten him off.” The redhead pushes her fingers under the edge of the bar gingerly. “Please come out, Simon. We'll get Magnus to reverse the spell. It'll be okay.” There's an exclamation of relief, and then Clary straightens, a rat that I assume is Simon clutched in her hand. “Simon! You understood me!”

       “I wouldn't feel to sorry for him,” Jace comments. “That's probably the closest he's ever gotten to second base.” I pinch him again, harder, and the blonde lets out a yelp.

       “Shut up!” Clary practically yells, glaring at my annoying brother. “Get Magnus,” the girl orders. “We have to turn him back.”

       “Let's not be hasty,” Jace says, grinning, the bastard. He reaches out to Simon. “He's cute like that. Look at his little pink nose.” Rat Simon snaps at Jace’s fingers and the blonde pulls his outstretched hand back. “Izzy, go fetch our magnificent host.”

       “Why me?” the girl whines. I scowl.

        _Your fault Eyeglass rat,_ I point out sharply. _Also, can not leave here._ I spot Magnus approaching from the other side of the room, and when he arrives at where we are, the warlock bends over Clary, chuckling.

       “I want him turned back,” the redhead says quite crossly, like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away. Magnus scratches his head.

       “No point,” the warlock replies.

       “That's what I said,” Jace comments, still grinning. This time Jak and I both pinch him, one on each arm. The blonde lets out another yelp of pain.

       “NO POINT?” Clary shouts. “HOW CAN YOU SAY THERE’S NO POINT?”

       “He’s going to turn back in a few hours,” Jak interjects, rolling his eyes. “The cocktails I make aren’t supposed to be permanent. Transformation spells will probably traumatize him. Mundanes’ body systems aren’t used to it.”

       “I doubt his system is used to being a rat either,” the petite girl points out crossly. “And why on earth do you make cocktails that turn people into rats?”

       “Because we normally don’t get mundanes that are effected by the drinks,” Jak replies with a shrug. “And because I left to dance with a hot werewolf.” Clary turns to Magnus, giving my twin up as a lost cause. 

       “You're a warlock; can't you just reverse the spell?” Magnus considers it.

       “No,” the warlock says. I snort.

        _Will not_ , I sign.

       “Not for free, darling, and you can't afford me, and I won't even do it for Jessa or Jak,” my adoptive warlock dad directs at Clary. 

       “I can't take a rat home on the subway either,” the redhead says as they both stand up. “I'll drop him, or one of the MTA police will arrest me for transporting pests on the transit system.” Simon chirps. “Not that you're a pest, of course.” The sound of angry voices rise above the noise of the party. Magnus rolls his eyes.

       “Excuse me,” he says, beckoning Jak over to follow him. They both disappear into the crowd. Isabelle sighs heavily.

       “So much for his help.”

       “You know you could always put the rat in your backpack,” Alec points out. Clary looks at him for a moment, then shrugs off her backpack and pops Simon in.

       “I'm sorry,” she says, sounding quite miserable.

       “Don't bother,” Jace says casually. “Why mundanes always insist on taking responsibility for things that aren't their fault is a mystery to me. You didn't force that cocktail down his idiotic throat.”

       “If it weren't for me, he wouldn't have been here at all,” Clary replies in a small voice.

       “Don't flatter yourself. He came because of Isabelle.” This time I cuff him over the back of the head harshly. We head towards the door, and as we're about to reach it, Jak pops out of the crowd.

       “I'm going to get some of my stuff, then I'm coming with you guys,” he informs the five of us. We all nod and back off to the side of the door as my silver and black-haired twin disappears again. As we wait, everyone begins to trickle out of the door. Apparently, Magnus had ended the party.

       “Vampires are such prima donnas,” the aforementioned warlock sighs, appearing out of the crowd. “Honestly, I don't know why I have these parties.”

        _Cat_ , I remind him, rolling my eyes. Magnus brightens.

       “That's true. Chairman Meow deserves my every effort.” He glances at me. “You on your way out?” Jace nods before my hands can sign anything.

       “Don't want to overstay our welcome.”

       “What welcome?” Magnus replies. “I'd say that it was a pleasure to meet you, but it wasn't. Not that you aren't all fairly charming, and as for you—” 

       The warlock winks at Alec, who looks astonished. “Call me?”


	16. Chapter 16

       Alec blushes and stutters, but Isabelle grabs him by the elbow and drags him to the door, me at their heels. A moment later, Jak runs into us. Literally. I sigh, pushing the Lightwoods to one side as I grab Jak, who's tumbling to the pavement. Jace arrives not a moment after my twin, and Jak brightens.

       “By the Angel, it's good to see you again, mate,” he says, hugging Jace again. I roll my eyes fondly.

        _Happy see person,_ I sign jokingly to Isabelle, who's standing beside me next to Alec. She gives me a small smile, but there are tears shining in her eyes. Jak lets go of Jace, just as Clary bursts out of Magnus’ apartment. Everyone takes that as a cue to start moving. Beside me, Isabelle is sniffing and wiping her eyes.

       “It's not your fault,” Alec consoles her. “But it ought to teach you not to go to so many Downworld parties. They're always more trouble than they're worth.” His sister sniffs loudly.

       “If anything had happened to him, I–I don't know what I would have done.”

       “Probably whatever it is you did before,” Alec replies. “It's not like you knew him all that well.”

       “That doesn't mean that I don't—

       “What? Love him?” Alec scoffs. “You need to know someone to love them.”

       “But that's not all it is,” Isabelle protests. “Didn't you have any fun at the party, Alec?”

       “No.” I raise an eyebrow.

        _Like Sparkles?_ I ask. _Nice, right?_

       “Nice?” Alec queries, looking at me with surprise. “Kittens are nice. Warlocks are—” 

       He hesitates. “Not,” he finishes lamely. Jak gives me a knowing look.

        _Know gay when see gay,_ he signs. Alec narrows his eyes at the two of us. 

       “I thought you might hit it off,” Izzy interjects, eye makeup glittering as she glances at her brother. “Get to be friends.” 

       “I have friends,” her brother replies, glancing over his shoulder at Jace. I fall back to Jak, who's walking in between us and Jace and Clary, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. All of a sudden, I detect that Clary and Jace stop moving. I turn, frowning. Jak disappears from my side, then reappears after a few moments later, duffel bag gone. He’d probably given it to one of the Lightwoods. 

       “What's wrong?” he asks the two. Clary looks at us with a tear-stained face.

       “It's Simon,” she says. “He's gone.” Jak and I both curse, him verbally and me mentally.

       “You guys go back to Magnus’ and see if you left him there. If not, meet us at that church on Diamond Street,” Jak instructs. Jace and Clary both nod, taking off immediately, back the way they'd come. Jak and I, on the other hand, sprint off towards the Diamond Street Church, leaving Alec and Izzy to go ahead by themselves. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       When the two of us arrive at the church, the church gates are locked.

       “Shit,” I mutter. It's only Jak right now, so I feel comfortable talking. “We're gonna have to climb.” My twin nods, kneeling down and holding both hands out to form a sort of stepping stool. “Strength rune?” I ask. He nods, and I step on his waiting hands. With one strong push, my silver and black-haired brother sends me halfway up the tall gate.

       I scurry up the rest of the way like a monkey, and when I get to the top, I balance on it carefully (gymnastics classes when I was twelve. I was great at vaulting and beam) and take a rope out of my pocket, attaching it to the top of the gate before dropping it down on Jak’s side.

       My twin grabs it, using it to rappel up as I slide down on the other side of the gate. Jak detaches the rope and throws it down to me, where I coil it neatly, then jumps straight down from the top to land right beside me. When we stand beside each other, you can clearly tell that, although we're fraternal twins, we're very different. Jak is always smiling and polite, talking enough for the both of us when he gets going. Most of the time I have either a surly scowl on my face or a half-assed smile, talking only when in Jak and Magnus’ company.

       Jak is tall and broad, with the build of a football player, while I'm small and slim with the build of either a dancer or gymnast. How we ended up twins, I have no idea.

       “What now?” Jak asks me. I shrug.

       “We wait.” I plop down, back pressed against an oak tree, and take out the bottle of liquid glamour that Magnus had given me. I stare at it for a moment, then tip some out onto my hand before rubbing it into my orange hair, slowly turning it to a bland chocolate brown. Jak sits down beside me, drawing his seraph blade, that's in the form of a Chinese dao, named Zadkiel to examine the curved blade made of _adamas_. I take out my cards and yawn, stretching my legs out in front of me as I spin an eight of clovers around in my hand. Jak raises an eyebrow at me.

       “Are you sleeping at all?” my twin asks suspiciously. I shrug. Jak glares, and I slowly seesaw my hand. My black and silver-haired twin rolls his eyes, holding an arm out. I take the silent offer, cuddling up underneath the arm and soaking in his natural, higher than average, body temperature.

       Sighing contentedly, I let myself drift off a bit, safe in the knowledge that Jak would alert me to anything happening. I’m not sure how long we wait, but all I know is that Jace and Clary are suddenly standing over us, looking at us with nothing short of amusement on their faces.

       I stick my tongue out at my brother, still halfway asleep and refusing to come away from Jak’s warm side. I feel my twin’s amused chuckle, then he shakes my shoulder. I whine in irritation, burrowing farther into his side. How the fuck is Jak so warm and not overheating? Then again, how am I not overheating? Eh, I don’t care. I’m sleepy and I need coffee now if anyone wants me to be functional. Jak sighs, but humors me by scooping me up and carrying me bridal style.

       I watch blearily as the four of us walk up to the front doors of the church, where Jace places his hands on the doors.

       “In the name of the Clave, I ask entry to this holy place,” he intones. “In the name of the Battle That Never Ends, I ask the use of your weapons. And in the name of the Angel Raziel, I ask your blessings on my mission against the darkness.” Right on cue, the doors swing open and Jace steps back.

       “After you,” he says to Clary. I yawn again, then tap Jak on the shoulder. He gets the message and sets me down obligingly, just as something warm is shoved into my hands. 

       “Ah,” Jak comments, just as I realize that what I’m holding is coffee. “That what took you so long?”

       “The lines were killer,” Jace replies. I roll my eyes, pushing past the two to enter the church, taking a sip of my coffee as I do. Clary doesn’t even give me that weird of a look as I head towards the altar and kneel down at it, running my fingers over smooth stone.

       I guess she just accepted by now that I’m an enigmatic trainwreck of a human being.

       It takes me mere seconds before my fingers catch on a small groove in the stone.

       I tap the stone audibly to alert the others of its presence, and Jace nods, stele already out and beginning to kneel down beside me, placing the stele near to where my pointer finger marks the small groove in the otherwise smooth stone. 

       Jace’s stele moves to the groove, and as soon as the tip of the fancy angelic Sharpie is fitted into the groove, the stone slides back to reveal a compartment with a large wooden box inside. Jak and Jace haul the box out and I’m the one to open it, downing a large gulp of my coffee as I do.

       The box is filled with weapons as well as some armor, and, with an excited grin, I rummage through the stuff, grabbing several and stepping back to let the others pick and choose while I strap everything into place and take a quick inventory of everything.

       Firecrackers (don’t ask), matches, eight daggers, Jehoel, rope, two decks of cards, eight throwing stars, two shorter seraph blades, two knives and all of their respective sheathes. Jehoel is strapped to my back, the throwing stars line my sleeves while the daggers line my jacket, the knives stuck in my boots, the rope around my waist like a belt, cards in my pockets and the seraph blades at my hips.

       Yes, I know that this is more than I need. Do I care? No, because Jak loses weapons like he loses everything else, which is every four minutes, so I have to throw him some in the midst of battle many more times than once. 

       Looking up as the others sort themselves out, I note that Jace has a few seraph blades and that Jak has Zadkiel, knives and a stake. I tip my head at the last choice, and Jak notices me looking at the sharp piece of wood, but doesn’t have time to explain. 

       “Alright,” Jace says. “Let’s go kick some vampire ass.”

       I mouth a quiet ‘oh’, wincing. Camille is going to be pissed at us. Well, more pissed than usual, the jealous bitch. Raphael… well, he’ll probably forgive us sometime next century. Or at least our rotting corpses, because not all of us can live forever.


	17. Chapter 17

       We take the subway to the vampires’ lair. Jak and I have been here four times total, but we still remember the way to it. It’s a hotel named the Hotel Dumont, but the vamps thought it would be funny if they crossed out the N and replaced it with an R, turning it into the Hotel Dumort; hotel of death. I think Arnold did that, but I’m not sure.

       At the sight of the sign, I snort and lead the way across the street, but by the time we reach the other side, Jace has taken charge.

       “Stay out of the light,” he instructs. “They might be watching from the windows. And don’t look up.” A pause.

       “Come on,” Jak murmurs, leading us around a corner of the hotel and into an alleyway. It’s narrow, flooded with garbage; moldy cardboard boxes, empty glass bottles, shredded plastic and scattered fragments of—

       “Bone,” Jace mutters. “Dog bones, cat bones. Don’t look too closely; going through vampires’ trash is rarely a pretty picture.” I shoot my older, blonde brother an ‘uh, duh’ look as I wade through the garbage, glad that my boots are thick and relatively old. I’ll never be able to get the smell out.

       I need a new pair anyways; the soles are beginning to wear out.

       “Well,” Clary murmurs, “at least we know we're in the right place.”

       “Oh, we're in the right place,” Jak says grimly. “Now we just have to figure out how to get inside.” Clary frowns at him, and I grin at the redhead. Glancing around the familiar alleyway, I see bricked-up windows and no doors or fire escapes. What I do see is the dumpster, that I distinctly remember moving last time I visited.

       “When this was a hotel, they must have gotten their deliveries here,” Jace says slowly. “I mean, they wouldn't have brought things through the front door, and there's no place else for trucks to pull up. So there must be a way in.”

       “The doors are probably in the ground, buried under the garbage,” Jak puts in. 

       “That's what I was thinking,” Jace agrees with a nod. I glance at Jak, realizing that he means to keep our relationship with the vampires secret. “I guess we'd better move the trash,” my blonde brother sighs. “We can start with the dumpster.” He points at it, face wholly unenthusiastic.

       “You'd rather face a ravening horde of demons, wouldn't you?” Clary asks, looking at Jace.

       “At least they wouldn't be crawling with maggots,” Jak grumbles. He pauses. “Well, not most of them, anyway.” Jace nods.

       “There was this one demon, once that I tracked down to the sewers under Grand Central—” 

       I raise a hand. “Don't,” Clary agrees. “I'm not really in the mood right now.”

       “That's got to be the first time a girl’s ever said that to me,” Jace muses.

       “Stick with me and it won't be the last,” the redhead mumbles. Jace’s mouth twitches.

       “This is hardly the time for idle banter. We have garbage to haul.” He stalks over to the dumpster and takes hold of a corner. “You girls get the other corners. We're going to tip it.” I take my place, but Clary remains motionless.

       “Tipping it will make too much noise,” the petite girl argues. “We should push it.”

       “Now look—” 

       “Do you really think you should be doing that?” I hear a familiar voice ask. Jak and I look at each other, identical expressions of apprehension on our faces. Jace freezes, hand slipping to his belt, stepping away from the dumpster.

       “Is there someone there?”

       “Dios mio,” Raphael mutters in his liquid-sounding Spanish. “You're not from this neighborhood, are you?” The vampire steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight. For a relatively old vampire, Raphael takes on the appearance of an eighteen-year-old boy six inches shorter than Jace.

       Thin-boned, with big dark eyes and honey-colored skin, Raphael wears black slacks, an open-necked white shirt and a gold chain around his neck that sparkles faintly as he moves closer to the light. 

       “You could say that,” Jace says carefully.

       “You shouldn't be here.” Raphael rakes a hand through his thick black curls. “This place is dangerous.” I see past the thinly-veiled disguise and see the warning in those sentences. The full picture, the one of a vampire warning Shadowhunters away from their territory.

       “We know,” Clary replies. “We just got a little lost, that's all.” The vampire gestures to the dumpster.

       “What were you doing with that?”

        _Animal_ , I sign, knowing that my speak in tongues rune is deactivated, but that Raphael knows sign. _Red beg check, see hurt. Soft spot._ The vampire frowns.

       “Puta madre—what kind of animal would dare to come close to this place?”

       “Apparently, the type who like creepy, dark alleys,” Jak comments dryly.

       “You don't understand,” Raphael says. “This place is haunted, cursed. Bad luck.” The vampire shakes his head vigorously, saying several vulgar things in Spanish. “Walk with me; I'll take you to the subway.” 

       “We know where the subway is,” Jace says flatly. Raphael laughs softly.

       “Claro. Of course you do, but if you go with me, no one will bother you. You do not want trouble, do you?”

       “That depends,” Jace replies, moving his jacket to reveal the seraph blade underneath. “How much are they paying you to keep people away from the hotel?” Raphael glances behind him, then back, mouth in a tight line.

       “How much are who paying me, chico?”

       “The vampires,” the blonde says bluntly. “How much are they paying you? Or is it something else—did they tell you they'd make you one of them, offer you eternal life, no pain, no sickness, you get to live forever? Because it's not worth it. Life stretches out very long when you never see the sunlight, chico.”

       Jak and I have to resist snorting, since we know that Raphael knows all this. He told us this himself, as a warning to never be bitten. He himself had been Turned unwillingly. 

       “My name is Raphael,” the vampire says, expressionless. “Not chico.”

       “But you know what we're talking about. You know about the vampires?” Clary asks. Raphael turns to the side and spits, turning back to us with hatred in his eyes.

       “Los vampiros, sí, the blood-drinking animals. Even before the hotel was boarded up, there were stories, the laughter late at night, the small animals disappearing, the sounds—” 

       The vampire stops and shakes his head. “Everyone in the neighborhood knew to stay away, but what can you do? You cannot call the police and tell them your problem is vampires.”

       “Have you ever seen them?” Jace asks. “Or known anyone who has?”

       “There were some boys, once, a group of friends,” Raphael replies slowly. “They thought they had a good idea, to go into the hotel and kill the monsters inside. They took guns with them. Knives too, all blessed by a priest. They never came out.”

       I see the hate in his eyes, know that it's from the hate buried deep inside of him, the hate for his own race, for his unwilling change. “My aunt, she found their clothes later, in front of the house.”

       “Your aunt’s house?” Jace queries.

       “Sí,” Raphael replies shortly. “One of the boys was my brother. So now you know why I walk by here in the middle of the night sometimes, on the way home from my aunt’s house, and why I warned you away. If you go in there, you will not come out again.” 

       Jak and I both look at each other, sensing the blatant trap. We'd heard that story, but it was always that Raphael was the one to enter the hotel to kill the vamps, not his brother.

        _Red_ _friend in,_ I finally sign, hoping that this will lessen the blow of the surely incoming trap. _Get him._

       “Ah,” Raphael says, giving no sign that anything had changed. “Then perhaps I cannot warn you away.”

       “No,” Jace agrees. “But don't worry. What happened to your friends won't happen to us.” He holds up one of his seraph blades. “I've killed plenty of vampires before. Their hearts don't beat, but they can still die.” I wince internally at that. Raphael inhales sharply, muttering something indistinguishable in Spanish.

       “I know what you are—I have heard about your kind, from the old padre at St. Cecilia’s. I thought that was just a story.” I gotta give it to the vampire—he's a good actor.

       “All the stories are true,” Jak says without any tone of amusement.

       “I want to go with you,” Raphael demands. Jace shakes his head.

       “No. Absolutely not.”

       “I can show you how to get inside,” Raphael offers. Ah, there's the trap. Jace wavers. I give him a sharp glare.

       “We can't bring you,” the blonde finally says.

       “Fine,” Raphael snaps, stalking past us and kicking aside a pile of trash to reveal rusting metal grating. The vampire kneels to lift it. “This is how my brother and his friends got in. It goes down to the basement, I think.”

       He looks up as we join him, peering down the now-uncovered chute. I reach around Clary, snatching Jace’s with light out of his pocket, flicking my wrist to turn it on. The blonde gives me an annoyed look, but ignores me otherwise.

       I wrinkle my nose when it flickers uncooperatively, handing it over to Jace reluctantly. 

       “Thanks,” the blonde says to the vampire. “This I'll work just fine.” 

       “You go in there and do for your friend what I could not do for my brother,” Raphael replies.

       “Follow me,” Jace says, sliding down in one smooth move. “It’s fine!” he calls from the bottom. “Jump down and I'll catch you.” I nod at Clary, who looks at Raphael.

       “Thank you for your help,” she says sincerely. Raphael says nothing, just holds out his hand. The petite redhead uses it to steady herself as she maneuvers into position, letting go and sliding down the chute. Jak goes next, sending Raphael a meaningful glance, leaving me a alone with the vampire.

       “What are you doing?” I whisper immediately.

       “Helping you,” he replies innocently. I snort.

       “I'm going down that chute, and you're going to try something, aren't you?” Raphael grins. I punch him in the arm, hard. “You're going to be in some big shit after this,” I hiss, before turning and sliding down the chute in a smooth move. I land at the bottom catlike, crouched close to the floor, eyes darting, one hand halfway raised to the hilt of Jehoel. Jak nods to me, and I straighten.

       Jace lifts the witchlight, letting the icy blue light wash over our surroundings. We're standing in a shallow, low-ceilinged space with a cracked concrete floor, black bones twining up the wall and a doorway without the door opens into another room.

       A loud thump makes Clary start, but Jak and I both turn, unsurprised, to see Raphael, knees bent, a few feet away from me. The vampire straightens up, grinning maniacally. Jace looks furious.

       “I told you—” 

       “And I heard you,” Raphael cuts in smoothly, waving a hand. “What are you going to do about it? I can't get back out the way we came in, and you can't just leave me here for the dead to find… can you?”

       “I'm thinking about it,” Jace grumps. Raphael points.

       “We must go that way, towards the stairs. They are up on the higher floors of the hotel you will see.” He pushes past the blonde and through the empty doorway. Jace looks after him, shaking his head.

       “I'm really starting to hate mundanes,” he grumbles.


	18. Chapter 18

       The lower floor of the hotel is a maze—identical corridors opening into empty storage rooms, a deserted laundry room, even a long-abandoned kitchen. Most of the staircases leading upstairs are gone; not rotted away, but deliberately chopped away and turned into stacks of kindling shoved against the walls, bits of Persian carpet still clinging to them. Clary coughs.

       “Shhh,” Raphael hisses. “They will hear you. We are close to where they sleep.” 

       “How do you know?” Clary whispers back.

       “I can feel it,” Raphael bullshits. “Can't you?” The redhead shakes her head. We get to the next floor and stop at a door marked Lobby. Jace pushes it open, and I flick a card  out of the deck, into my hand. The room is empty, a large foyer covered in rotting carpet that's torn back to show the splintered floor board beneath. The centerpiece of this room had probably once been a grand staircase that curved gracefully, lined with gilt banisters and richly carpeted in gold and scarlet. Now all that remains are the higher steps, starting nowhere and leading you into darkness, hanging just above our heads in midair.

       “What do vampires have against stairs?” Clary asks dryly.

       “Nothing,” Jak says with a shrug.

        _No need use,_ I sign.

       “It is a way of showing that this place is one of theirs,” Raphael interrupts. Jace glances at the vampire.

       “Have you ever actually seen a vampire, Raphael?” he asks. Raphael looks right back at the blonde.

       “I know what they look like. They are paler, thinner than human beings, but very strong. They walk like cats and spring with the swiftness of serpents. They are beautiful and terrible. Like this hotel.”

       “You think it's beautiful?” Clary asks skeptically. Raphael nods.

       “You can see where it was, years ago. Like an old woman who was once beautiful, but time has taken her beauty away,” the vampire explains. “You must imagine this staircase the way it was once, with the gas lamps burning all up and down the steps, like fireflies in the dark, and the balconies full of people. Not the way it is now, so—” 

       The vampire breaks off, searching for a word that he deems good enough to describe the hotels current trashy state.

       “Truncated?” Jace suggests dryly. Clary turns to Jace.

       “Where are they, anyways? The vampires, I mean.”

       “Upstairs, probably,” my older brother replies. “They like to be high up when they sleep, like bats. And it's nearly sunrise.” Clary and Raphael both look upwards. My hands twitch, and I palm out the rest of a fan of cards.

       “I think we should go back to the servants’ stairs,” Clary whispers. “I feel too exposed out here.” Jace nods.

       “You realize, once we get there, you'll have to call out for Simon and hope he can hear you?”

       “I—” 

       A scream cuts Clary off, and the four of us whirl around. Raphael’s gone. Clary reaches for Jace, but the blonde is already running, Jak and me on his heels. We pass under an arch, into what could have once been a ballroom. Ruined white marble floors, curved balconies along the walls and gold-framed mirrors hanging in intervals, spiderwebs drifting through the air. In the center of it all is where Raphael stands.

       “Are you alright?” Clary asks him breathlessly. The vampire nods.

       “I thought I saw a movement in the shadows. It was nothing.”

       “We've decided to head back to the servants’ stairs,” Jace says. “There's nothing on this floor.” The vampire nods.

       “Good idea,” he replies, heading for the door.

       “Raphael!” my older brother suddenly calls. The vampire turns, and, fast as lightning, Jace throws a dagger. Raphael falls heavily, feet swept out from under him. I frown, readying a card as I sprint over to the downed vampire. Jace races over to Raphael as well, grasping the protruding knife. Jak grabs Clary’s arms in order to prevent her from running forwards.

       Raphael seizes the knife in an attempt to pull it out, but hisses as soon as his hand comes into contact with the cross-shaped hilt. Jace fists one hand in Raphael’s shirt, a seraph blade in the other. I give Raphael an angry look and back away. The vampire simply laughs.

       “You missed,” he informs Jace, grinning to show pointed white incisors. “You missed my heart.” Jace’s grip tightens.

       “You moved at the last minute.”

       “That was very inconsiderate,” Jak pipes up. The vampire simply frowns.

       “When did you figure it out?” he demands, accent less pronounced now.

       “I guessed in the alley,” Jace replies. “But I figured you'd get us inside the hotel, then turn on us. Once we'd trespassed, we'd have been out of the protection of the Covenant. Fair game. When you didn't, I thought I might have been wrong. Then I saw that scar on your throat.” The blonde sits back a bit, holding the seraph blade to Raphael’s threat. “I thought when I first saw that chain that it looked like the sort you'd hang a cross from. And you did, didn't you, when you went out to see your family? What's the scar of a little burn when your kind heal so quickly?” Raphael laughs.

       “Was that all? My scar?”

       “When you left the foyer, your feet didn't leave marks in the dust. Then I knew.”

       “It wasn't your brother who went in here looking for monsters and never came out, was it?” Clary asks slowly. “It was you.”

       “You are both very clever,” the vampire replies. “Although not quite clever enough. Look up.” One hand extends to the ceiling, pointing to it, and Jace knocks it away. “What do you see?” I look up and mouth a hurried curse without a noise, slipping my cards away and unsheathing my short seraph blades. Jace’s gaze is still on Raphael.

       “You called them. Didn't you?” Raphael grins. 

       “Does it matter? There are too many of them, even for the three of you Waylands.”

       “Jace,” Clary says warningly. “Don't kill him.”

       “Why not?”

       “Maybe we can use him as a hostage,” the redhead replies. I nod approvingly. Raphael glares at me, and I shrug. He dug this grave, and now he gets to fucking lie in it. 

       “A hostage,” Jace repeats. I roll my eyes, pushing Jace aside and slapping Raphael before I haul him up, handing him over to Jace. There's the sound of a blade unsheathing, and I turn to the sight of Jak with Zadkiel in one hand, Jace’s witchlight in the other. The stupid stone is flickering, though, so he hands it over to Clary.

       “I can pierce your heart just as easily through the back,” the blonde says to Raphael. “I wouldn't move if I were you.” Clary flings out a hand at the steadily growing mass of vampires.

       “Stop right there,” she says authoritatively. “Or he'll put that blade through Raphael’s heart.” The vampires continue to advance. “Stop,” Clary commands again, and this time Jace does something that makes Raphael cry out in surprised pain. I wince. A blonde vampire at the front of the crowd flings an arm out to hold back his companions. I squint in the gloom and recognize him vaguely as Jacob.

       “She means it,” he says. “They are Shadowhunters.” His gaze drifts over to Jak and me. “Jak? Jessa? What on earth are you doing here?” Another vampire pushes her way through the crowd, this one Asian, to stand at his side. I brighten marginally as I recognize her as Lily.

       “Shadowhunters trespassing on our territory,” she muses, eyes darting over to Jak and me. I shift uncomfortably, sending the mass of vampires an apologetic look. “They are out of the protection of the Covenant. I say we kill them—they have killed enough of ours.” I open my mouth to protest, then look at Clary, closing it quickly. 

       “Which one of you is the master of this place?” Jace demands, voice flat. Jak and I exchange looks of apprehension. “Let him step forward.” Lily bares pointed teeth.

       “Do not use Clave language on us, Shadowhunter. You have broken your precious Covenant, coming in here. The Law will not protect you.”

       “That's enough, Lily,” Jacob says sharply. “Our master is not here. She is in Idris.” Jak and I breathe sighs of relief. Camille may be a bitch, but she’s a powerful one. 

       “Someone must rule you in her stead,” Jace replies lightly. There's a silence.

       “Raphael leads us,” Jacob admits. Lily hisses in disapproval.

       “Jacob—” 

       “I propose a trade,” Clary says quickly, cutting off both vampires. “By now you must know you took home too many people from the party tonight. One of them was my friend Simon.” Jacob’s eyebrows rise.

       “You're friends with a vampire?” I shake my head, taking out my stele to draw a speak in tongues rune.

        _Mundane_.

       “We didn't take any human boys home with us from Magnus’ party. That would have been a violation of the Covenant.” I wrinkle my nose.

        _Rat_ , I sign in explanation. _Brown_.

       “Someone must have thought he was a pet or…” Clary trails off.

       “Let me get this straight,” Lily says. “You're offering to trade Raphael’s life for a rat?” I shrug, seesawing my hand back and forth with a mildly embarrassed expression on my face. The vampire clan looks at us blankly, and Clary seems to be falling apart.

       “Do you mean this rat?” a familiar voice asks, cutting through the silence. A thin black boy with dreadlocks named Elliott pushes his way through the crowd, holding a wriggling brown rat.

       “Simon?” Clary whispers. The rat squeaks affirmatively.

       “Man, I thought he was Zeke,” Elliott says apologetically. “I wondered why he was copping such an attitude.” The vampire shakes his head. “I say she can have him, dude. He's already bitten me five times.” Clary reaches for Simon, but Lily steps in front of her before she can.

       “Wait,” the Asian vampire commands. “How do we know you won't just take the rat and kill Raphael anyway?”

       “We'll give our word,” Clary replies. Raphael swears softly in Spanish.

        _Friend,_ I sign exasperatedly. Lily nods, then looks at Jace.

       “Clary,” he says. “Is this really a—” 

       “No oath, no trade,” Lily says immediately, seizing on his uncertain tone. “Elliott, hold on to that rat.” The dreadlocked boy tightens his hold on Simon, who sinks his teeth deep into his hand.

       “Man, that hurt,” Elliott says. I sigh irately, done with it all.

       “Lily is right,” Jacob says. “An oath is required. Swear that you won't hurt Raphael. Even if we give you the rat back.”

       “I won't hurt Raphael,” Clary replies immediately. “No matter what.” Lily smiles at her, but it's not one of her (infamously rare) nice smiles.

       “It isn’t you we're worried about.” The vampire shoots a pointed glare at Jace.

       “Alright,” the blonde sighs. “I swear it.”

       “Speak the oath,” Lily commands quickly. “Swear on the Angel. Say it all.” Jace shakes his head.

       “You swear first.” Jacob looks concerned, Lily furious.

       “Not a chance, Shadowhunter.”

       “We have your leader.” The tip of Jace’s knife digs into Raphael’s threat. “And what have you got there? A rat.” Simon squeaks furiously. I give my brother an exasperated look.

       “Jace—” 

       Lily looks to Raphael, the single motion enough to cut Jak off.

       “Master?” Raphael has his head down, dark curls falling in front of his face.

       “A pretty important rat for you to come all the way here got him,” he says slowly. “It is you, Shadowhunter, I think, who will swear first.” Jace’s grip on him tightens, and I make a mental note to slap the vampire the next time I see him. 

       “The rat’s a mundane,” Jace says sharply. “If you kill him, you'll be subject to the Law—” 

       “He is on our territory. Trespassers are not protected by the Covenant, you know that—” 

       “You brought him here,” Clary interjects. “He didn't trespass.”

       “Technicalities,” Raphael says, grinning despite the knife at his throat. “Besides. You think we do not hear the rumors, the news that is running through Downworlder like blood through veins. Valentine is back. There will be no Accords and no Covenant soon enough.” Jak’s head jerks up.

       “Where did you hear that?” Clary queries. Raphael frowns mockingly.

       “All Downworld knows it. He paid a warlock to raise a pack of Raveners only a week ago. He has brought his Forsaken to seek the Mortal Cup. When he finds it, there will be no more false peace between us, only war. No Law will prevent me from tearing your heart out on the street, Shadowhunter—” 

       Clary dives for Simon, snatching him out of Elliott's grip, and makes to run. However, she doesn't get far before Lily’s nails are digging into her jacket.

       “Let go!” the redhead screams, kicking out at the Asian vampire. Her booted foot connects and Lily shouts in both pain and rage. The vampire strikes Clary’s cheek, hard enough for her head to rock back. Jak lets out a noise of dismay before launching himself at the pair of girls.

       I stow my cards and take out a match and the firecrackers, the match lit in a heartbeat. I touch the flame to the wire, then throw them away as they begin to pop. A scream, and then Raphael lunges at Clary and Jace. Rat Simon suddenly launches himself at the vampire, biting his arm and clinging there with his teeth.

       “Son of a—”


	19. Chapter 19

       Raphael flings Simon away with one strong sweep of his arm, and Clary rushes over to him and scoops him up gently. Jace tugs her to the wall, Jak and I following.

       “Enough standing around!” Raphael yells, glaring at the mass of vampires. “Seize the trespassers!” he shouts. “Kill them all—the rat as well.”

       “Aw, Raph,” Jak whines. “Mags is going to be so pissed at us.” 

       The vampires advance, and Jace increases his pace, heading towards the far wall. Clary screams as Lily lunges at her. I tackle her, pushing away as soon as we stop tumbling and then, grasping Jak’s hand, pull myself after the group. all of a sudden, a shower of glass rains down on the assembled vampires. 

       And then, through shattered windows bound dozens of quadruped, sleek shapes. Fur glimmers in the moonlight, small pieces of broken glass scattered over soft pelts. Their eyes are a fiery blue, and they're growling in one combined, low note that sounds like the crash of a waterfall.

       Werewolves.

       “Now this,” Jace mutters, “is a situation.” The wolves remain crouched, snarling at the vampires, who slowly back away. Raphael is the sole vamp who holds their ground.

      “Los Niños de la Luna,” he hisses. “HOW DARE YOU ENTER OUR PLACE?” the vampire shrieks. At that exact moment, a sudden jolting pain lances through my back and I collapse to the ground, back wracked with pain and barely managing to sheathe my short swords.

      “Jessa? Jessa?” Jak asks, hands running over me frantically. He sounds like he's talking from the end of a tunnel. “Fuck. C’mon, little sis, stick with me.” I seize up once more, and then warm arms envelop me and we're running, running, running. Even in my pained state, I get a vague feeling of amusement.

      Playing tag with beings from the Shadow World is an interesting pastime. 

      I feel fresh air on my face, and the pain lessens to a dull throb. I stop convulsing in Jak’s arms and he sets me down gently. I stare at the black sky for a moment before rolling over gingerly, yet quickly, slipping off my jacket and tying it around my waist, listening to the clank of the shuriken knocking together.

       I vaguely realize that we're on the roof of the Hotel Dumort with no escape. My gaze lands on a pile of tarpaulin that's covering something. Jak and I exchange looks and grin wickedly. He's figured it out as well, and together we hurry over and drag the tarp off to reveal vampire motorcycles. I grab one of the smaller ones, and both Jace and Jak grab a Harley.

       I glance behind me, brown ponytail whipping around. The roof door bursts open with a crash, and wolves pour through it. Vampires fly along above them, and I curse mentally, just before the pain in my back escalates. I let out a gasp of pain, slumping over the handlebars of my motorbike before struggling upright. 

       There's the rev of an engine, and then Jace drives off of the roof of the hotel, Jak right behind him. I glance back one more time before following suit. I hit the ground hard, the impact nearly jarring me from the seat, but I hold on tight and take off in a shower of sparks. 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       When I pull up outside the Institute alone, the pain in my back is nearing the peak of my pain tolerance. I stagger up to the church doors, shoving them open and stumbling into the elevator, jabbing the up button harshly. When I stumble out of the elevator, it's to the sight of a worried Alec sitting in the entryway.

       “Where's Jace?” he asks anxiously. “Are you okay?” I shrug painfully, wobbling on my feet. Alec shoots up and hurries over to support me.

       “Jak,” I murmur. “Gold eye. Twin.” That's all I can manage to force past lips that seem to weigh a million pounds before I black out.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       When I wake up, the first thing I see is the high ceiling of the Infirmary. The next thing I see when I sit up is Jak, who's sleeping in a chair next to my bed. I close my eyes tightly before opening them, feeling nauseous. Swallowing down the vomit, I lift the covers off of myself and inspect the damage.

       Bandages are wrapped tightly around my lower left leg, and I can feel the road burn underneath them. The left leg of my jeans hav3 been cut away to access that part of my leg. Shame; I actually liked these. Ah, well. I really should quit buying things I like; it's all going to get ruined by demons eventually. Jak stirs beside me, waking up.

       “Hey, you,” he says, stretching. He reminds me of Chairman Meow. I smile weakly.

       “Hey.” Without so much as a warning, Jace suddenly bursts into the room.

       “Meeting. Now. We're devising battle strategies,” he informs us. I grumble a bit, but swing my legs over the edge of the cot. As soon as my feet hit the floor and I'm standing up, I sway off-balance, woozy. Jak stands, gripping my elbow to steady me. Once I'm balanced, I test my left leg out gingerly. It doesn't hurt that much, so I take it from there.

       The three of us make our way to the library, and on the way out, I grab Jehoel and a deck of cards from the pile of my weapons at the door of the Infirmary. The meeting in the library is small, but everyone is already there. Jace updates the others on what's happened so far and I sit down next to Alec, Jak taking the empty seat next to me.

       To put it in fewer words, Clary had the ability to turn shit into drawings and back again and Madame Dorothea has a tarot card that's actualy the Mortal Cup in paint form.

       “I don't really see what any of this has to do with us,” Alec says blearily, looking at Jak through his slightly long black hair. “I thought the search for the Cup was in the hands of the Clave now.”

       “It's just better if we do this ourselves,” Jace replies impatiently. “Hodge and I already discussed it and that's what we decided.”

       “Well, I'm game,” Isabelle informs us all, tucking a braid behind her ear.

       “I'm not,” Alec argues. “There are operatives of the Clave in this city right now looking for the Cup. Pass the information on to them and let them get it.”

       “It's not that simple,” Jace protests.

       “It is simple,” his _parabatai_ shoots back with a frown. “This has nothing to do with us and everything to do with your—your addiction to danger.” My older brother shakes his head, exasperated.

       “I don't understand why you're fighting me on this. Look, Dorothea—the owner of the Sanctuary—doesn't trust the Clave. Hates them, in fact. She does trust us.”

       “She trusts me,” Clary corrects. “I don't know about you. I'm not sure she likes you at all.” Jace ignores her.

       “Come on, Alec. It'll be fun. And think of the glory if we bring the Mortal Cup back to Idris! Our names will never be forgotten!” I wrinkle my nose. Nope, that's not for me. I hate attention.

       “I don't care about glory,” Alec replies resignedly. “I care about not doing anything stupid.”

       “In this case, however, Jace is right,” Hodge says. “If the Clave were to come to Sanctuary, it would be a disaster. Dorothea would flee with the Cup and would probably never be found. No, Jocelyn clearly wanted only one person to be able to find the Cup, and that is Clary, and Clary alone.”

       “Then let her go alone,” Alec snaps. I yawn, and Jak glances at me worriedly. I smile softly at him, but I'm already halfway nodding off. A few moments later, I've entered dreamland. When I wake up again, though, Jak whispers the plan into my ear and I nod. Everyone disperses to get ready, and I sigh as I stand up steadily to make my way to the Infirmary in order to pick up my stuff.

       Bundling it all up tightly, I lead Jak to my room where we go through my duffel. Jak puts his own in my room, so we go through that together, mixing clothes. The two of us share clothes all the time, so that's why Jak’s clothes fit him perfectly and mine hang off of my smaller frame.

       Jak’s brought the rest of my weapons with him, so now I have enough weapons to outfit more than three people. A short sword hang on either side of my waist, ten daggers line the inside of my jacket and two slender, runed knives are slid into sheathes hidden by my boots.

       Ten throwing stars are slotted into hidden pockets in my jacket, a pack of explosive darts in another as well as three decks of _adamas_  cards. I've swapped my ruined clothes out already, torn jeans traded for stretchy, comfortable black pants and the tank top for another, cleaner one. 

       When Jak’s ready, we go down to meet the others in the church entryway. Alec’s the first to arrive, and with him he brings a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Izzy’s next, electrum whip already curled around her wrist, seraph blade strapped to her waist. Jace and Clary arrive to together, my brother with a seraph blade and a couple knives, the redhead with a shorter one. 

       Clary leads the way outside into the drizzle. Simon, who apparently turned back into a human while I was out, pulls up not a couple minutes after in a bright yellow van.


	20. Chapter 20

       “That's the van?” Jace asks dubiously. “It looks like a rotting banana.” I peer out into the drizzle and shrug, nonplussed. Simon opens the doors.

       “Hey.” I climb in quickly, claiming the back right. Jak climbs in and sits on the left, leaving Alec with the middle.

       “Hey indeed,” Jace says, holding up a duffel bag that I haven't noticed until now. “Where can we put these?” Isabelle and Jace end up in front of Alec, Jak and me, while Simon and Clary take driver and passenger seats. I pull out a book and ignore everyone for the journey to Clary’s apartment. When we finally pull up outside the apartment, it's stopped raining.

       Jace, Alec and I go to check ‘demon activity levels,’ while Jak, Simon, Isabelle and Clary stay in the van. Threaded beams of sunlight burn away the remnants of mist and puddles on the sidewalk are drying as the three of us make our way to the building. Jace and Alec take one side, me the other. A quick scan is all it takes for me to confirm that there's no demons anywhere. I would have left immediately and met up with the other two, but then I see the corner of a photo sticking out from under a pile of charred paper.

       I frown, then slip the picture out from under the pile. It's a picture of two babies held in the arms of a familiar-looking woman whom I'm absolutely sure I've never seen in my life. And then it hits me. This woman has Jak’s nose, my eyes, Jak’s height and my smile. This is my mother. But why would Jocelyn Fairchild have a picture of my mother in her apartment?

       Frowning, I tuck the photo into a pocket and exit the room, heading out to the van. Jak leans against the hood of the car beside Isabelle and Jace and Alec are standing in front of them, talking. Jace spots me and beckons me over.

       “Nothing?” I nod affirmatively.

       “All right,” the blonde says, poking his head through the front seat window of the van in order to talk to Clary and Simon. “We've checked all four corners of the house—nothing. Low activity. Probably just the Forsaken, and they might not bother us unless we try getting into the upstairs apartment.” 

       “And if they do,” Isabelle cuts in, grinning, “we'll be ready for them.” Alec takes the heavy duffel out of the back of the van, dropping it on the sidewalk.

       “Ready to go,” he announces. “Lets kick some demon butt!” I look at him oddly, because this Alec is not Alec.

       “You all right?” Jace asks his _parabatai_.

       “Fine,” the ravenette replies, discarding his bow and quiver of arrows in favor of a feather staff, two glittering blades appearing at a touch. “This is better.” Isabelle looks at him, concern written over her face.

       “But the bow…”

       “I know what I'm doing, Isabelle.”

       “How come I can see you guys?” Simon suddenly asks. “What happened to that invisibility magic of yours?”

       “You can see us because now you know the truth of what you're looking at,” Jak explains patiently.

       “Yeah,” Simon muses. “I guess I do.” I grin as Jak pushes off the car and comes over to me, wrapping me in a one-armed side hug as Clary gets out of the van. Simon makes to do the same, but I break away from Jak to put a hand on his arm, stopping him. The mundane looks at me, slight anger crossing over his features.

       “Hey. Move your arm!” I shake my head no.

       “Look at it this way,” Jak suggests. “Sunlight’s fatal to demons, but it won't hurt the Forsaken. What if they chase us? What if the car gets towed?” Simon nods reluctantly, and I go back to the duffel, rummaging through it until I find a dagger. Giving it a test swipe, I nod to myself and flip it, catching the flat part of the blade between my finger and thumb, turning to Simon and offering it to him. The boy takes it, albeit slowly.

       “Use it if you need to,” Jak recommends. With that, the six of us turn and head into the apartment. As soon as we step foot in the apartment, a twinge of pain forms in my back.

       “Demons have been here,” Jace announces. “Recently, too.” Clary looks slightly nervous. 

       “But they're not still—“ 

       “No,” the blonde replies, shaking his head. “We would have sensed it. Still.” He jerks his chin at a door which I assume is Madame Dorothea’s. “She might have some questions to answer if the Clave hears she's been entertaining demons.”

       “I doubt the Clave will be too pleased with any of this,” Jak comments dryly. “She'll probably come out better than we do.” I glance at Clary and then Isabelle, weighing my options, then take the plunge.

       “Won't care long as we get the Cup in the end,” I say bitterly. Clary actually stops and stares, while Isabelle just pauses and keeps on walking.

       “Especially if we slaughtered something nasty while we do it,” Jak adds.

       “What are you waiting for?” Izzy demands, looking at Clary. The redhead moves over to Dorothea’s door quickly, and knocks once, lightly, then twice, firmer. The door swings open almost immediately after the second knock, revealing a large woman who immediately sweeps Clary up into what looks like a tight hug.

       “Good Lord, girl,” she says, shaking her head. “The last time I saw you, you erred disappearing through my Portal. Where'd you end up?”

       “Williamsburg,” Clary replies. Dorothea’s eyebrows raise.

       “And they say there's no convenient public transportation in Brooklyn.” She gestures for all of us to come in and we do, although we do it cautiously. “I take it you haven't located your mother?” she asks Clary. The petite girl shakes her head negative.

       “No. But I know who took her.” Dorothea’s gaze darts around the room before she answers.

       “Was it—”

       “Valentine,” Clary confirms. “Yes.” The witch sighs.

       “I feared as much.” She sits down in a chair and settles against the cushions. “Do you know what he wants with her?”

       “I know she was married to him—” 

       That earns a grunt from the witch.

       “Love gone wrong. The worst.” Jace gives a soft, almost inaudible chuckle, making Dorothea glance in his direction. “What's so funny, boy?”

       “What would you know about it?” the blonde annoyance asks. “Love, I mean.” The old witch folds her hands in her lap.

       “More than you might think,” she replies evasively. “Didn't I read your tea leaves, Shadowhunter? Have you fallen in love with the wrong person yet?”

       “Unfortunately, Lady of the Haven, my one true love remains myself,” Jace drawls, getting a laugh out of the witch.

       “At least you don't have to worry about rejection, Jace Wayland.”

       “Not necessarily. I turn myself down occasionally, just to keep it interesting.” Dorothea laughs again, but Clary interrupts her.

       “You must be wondering why we're here, Madame Dorothea.” The old woman subsides, wiping her eyes.

       “Please,” she says, “feel free to give me my proper title, as the boy did. You may call me Lady. And I assumed that you came for the pleasure of my company. Was I wrong?” I snort at that.

       “I don't have time for the pleasure of anyone’s company,” Clary says impatiently. “I have to help my mother, and to do that there's something I need.”

       “And what's that?”

       “It's something called the Mortal Cup,” the petite girl replies. “And Valentine thought my mother had it. That's why he took her.” The Lady of the Haven looks astonished.

       “The Cup of the Angel?” she asks, disbelief oozing from her words. “Raziel’s Cup, in which he mixed the blood of angels and the blood of men and gave this mixture to a man to drink, and created the first Shadowhunter?” I hold up both hands, fingers splayed, to create a joking 10/10 score.

       “That would be the one,” Jak deadpans.

       “Why on earth would he think she had it?” Dorothea demands. “Jocelyn of all people?” Realization dawns upon the Lady before Clary can utter a word. “Because she wasn't Jocelyn Fray at all, of course. She was Jocelyn Fairchild, his wife. The one everyone thought had died. She took the Cup and fled, didn't she?” The Lady of the Haven shakes her head as if to clear it of her surprise. “So,” Dorothea says. “Do you know what you're going to do now? Wherever she's hidden it, it can't be easy to find—if you even want it found. Valentine could do terrible things with his hands on that Cup.”

       “I want it found,” Clary says. “We want to—” 

       “We know where it is,” Jace cuts in shortly. “It's only a matter of retrieving it.” Dorothea’s eyes widen.

       “Well, where is it?” I hesitate before swinging an arm around the entirety of the room. “Here?” the Lady gasps. “You mean you have it with you?”

       “Not exactly, dear Lady,” my blonde brother replies. “I meant that you have it.” The Lady of the Haven’s mouth snaps shut.

       “That's not funny,” she snaps.

       “You do have it,” Clary protests from her armchair.

       “You are mistaken,” Dorothea says coldly as she rises from her armchair. “Both in imagining that I have the Cup, and in daring to come here and call me a liar.” I shake my head vigorously, looking at Clary for help.

       “No,” the redhead quickly intervenes as everyone tenses up. “I'm not calling you a liar, I promise. I'm saying the Cup is here, but you never knew it.” Madame Dorothea stares at her for a moment.

       “Explain yourself.”


	21. Chapter 21

       “I'm saying my mother hid it here,” Clary says quickly. “Years ago. She never told you because she didn't want to involve you. So she gave it to you disguised in the form of a gift.” Dorothea looks back at the readhead blankly. “The tarot deck,” Clary says. “The cards she painted for you.” The Lady’s gaze drifts over to the cards lying on a table.

       “The cards?” she murmurs. Her words draw up an absurd picture of that villain from _Princess and the Frog._ Dr. Facilier, I think. Clary nods, going to the table and picking the deck up. I hold out a hand, and the redhead hands them over willingly. Within a few flicks, I've found the Ace of Cups, which I hand to Clary.

       “Can I have someone’s stele?” she asks. I nod, handing her mine, which she uses to draw a rune on the tarot card. Then, slipping the stele into her pocket, the redhead flips the card over and reaches straight into it, arm disappearing into an unseen compartment. When she withdraws her arm, she holding what I assume is the Mortal Cup. There's an awed silence, but Jace breaks it with his fat mouth.

       “Somehow, I thought it would be bigger.” Clary looks from the Cup to Jace, clearly annoyed.

       “It's a perfectly nice size,” she says indignantly.

       “Oh, it's big enough,” Jace replies. “But somehow I was expecting something… you know.” He holds his hands out, indicating something vaguely the size of a cat. I raise an eyebrow as Izzy rolls her eyes.

       “It’s the Mortal Cup, Jace, not the Mortal Toilet Bowl.” She glances around. “Are we done now? Can we go?” Dorothea frowns as she tips her head to one side, gaze fixed on the Cup.

       “But it’s damaged!” she exclaims. “How did that happen?”

       “Damaged?” Clary echoes, looking at the Cup with confusion. I get chills down my back as I stand up uneasily.

       “Here, let me show you,” Dorothea says, approaching the redhead who shrinks back. I shake my head behind the witches back, telling them not to give the Cup over. Jace stands in front of Clary protectively.

       “No offense, but nobody touches the Mortal Cup except us,” the blonde says coldly. Dorothea looks at him for a moment.

       “Now, let’s not be hasty,” she says. “Valentine would be displeased if anything were to happen to the Cup.” The sword at Jace’s waist is suddenly in his hand, the tip held underneath Dorothea’s chin.

       “I don’t know what this is about, but we’re leaving,” the blonde says coolly. The witch’s eyes gleam.

       “Of course, Shadowhunter,” she replies, backing up to a curtained wall behind her. I’ve moved around to stand beside Jak and Alec at this point. “Would you like to use the Portal?”

       “Don’t touch that—”

       Dorothea chuckles, then, disregarding Jace’s order (not that I expected her to heed it anyways), yanks the curtains down. They fall to the ground in a heap, revealing an open Portal behind. Alec sucks in a breath beside me.

       “What is that?”

       “Get down!” Jace suddenly yells, dropping to the floor with Clary. I drag Alec down with me, keeping track of Isabelle, who’s in front of me, Clary and Jace to her right, Alec beside me and Jak on my right, before looking back at Dorothea. Something dark is coming out of the Portal, and it’s wrapping around the Lady of the Haven like a shroud, blackness seeping into her like spilled ink into paper. Her back humps, her body elongating as she rises into the air, bulk stretching and reforming.

       Jace, Alec and Clary have a quick conversation, and then everyone’s up and running for the door. We make it out of Dorothea’s door, but when we get to the front door, it’s locked. I curse, drawing Jehoel, and stand in front of everyone, back turned to them. Somebody does something to the door, and it’s Isabelle who speaks.

       “It’s resistant. Must be a spell—” 

       Jace swears, and there’s some fumbling around.

       “Where the hell is my stele?”

       “I don’t know, but I have Jessa’s,” Clary replies. There’s a boom, and I drag Alec out of the way just in time.

       “Alec!” Jace shouts. Something oozes out of the newly-made hole in the wall that’s actually an improvement for the horrible decor, heading straight for us. I curse in several different languages, backing up with Alec. The oozing mass solidifies and I curse, uninhibited, because this is bad. This is really bad. The thing—a demon, without a doubt—looks like a nine feet tall, rotting skeleton with a tail. It looks at the six of us with empty eye sockets.

       “Give me the Mortal Cup,” the demon demands. “Give it to me and I will let you live.”

       “What are you?” Jace asks instead of answering, voice steady. The thing inclines its rotting skeleton skull.

       “I am Abbadon. I am the Demon of the Abyss. Mine are the empty places between the worlds. Mine is the wind and the howling darkness. I am as unlike those mewling things you call demons as an eagle is unlike a fly. You cannot hope to defeat me. Give me the Cup or die.” I groan.

       “That must explain why you’re so ugly,” I mutter under my breath. Beside me, Alec makes a choking noise.

       “It’s a Greater Demon,” Isabelle murmurs. “Jace, we—”

       “What about Dorothea?” Clary demands. “What happened to her?” The demon swings around to look at her.

       “She was a vessel only,” it says. “She opened the Portal and I took possession of her. Her death was swift.” Its gaze moves to the Cup, still clutched tightly in Clary’s hands. “Yours will not be.” The Greater Demon begins to move towards the redhead, but Jace moves in front of her, seraph blade in one hand, sword in the other.

       “By the Angel,” my brother says, looking the demon up and down. “I knew Greater Demons were meant to be ugly, but no one ever warned me about the smell.” Abbadon hisses, mouth opening in a snarl. Inside it’s mouth are two rows of jagged, glass-sharp teeth. “I’m not so sure about this wind and howling darkness business,” Jace continues. “Smells more like landfill to me. You sure you’re not from Staten Island?”

       “Staten Island isn’t as bad as he is,” I call over. The demon leaps at Jace, who whips his blades up and outwards with a speed no regular human could match. Both sink into the demons abdomen, the fleshiest part of its body. Releasing a pained howl, strikes out with its vicious claws. Jace rolls, avoiding it expertly. Jak and Isabelle immediately dart forwards, Isabelle lashing out with her whip and Jak with several throwing knives and Zadkiel.

       All of a sudden, the demon strikes at Jace and Alec isn’t standing beside me anymore. A shriek fills the air—Alec’s feather staff must have pierced the demon's skin. With a snarl, Abbadon strikes, dealing Alec a vicious blow that lifts the Lightwood off of his feet and hurls him against the far wall. I seem to watch it in slow motion, but then I’m there, intercepting his body and allowing my own to cushion his fall.

       The weight of his body sends me crashing into the wall with the full force of the initial blow, but with the added weight of Alec. I grunt as I hear bones crack, though I’m not sure which ones are mine and which ones are Alec’s, but I’m in shock, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I don’t feel the pain just yet. Isabelle screams her brothers name. He doesn’t move. I maneuver myself out from behind him carefully, a pain in my midsection making itself known.

       I look up and see Isabelle lowering her whip, beginning to run over to where I kneel over Alec with Jak right behind her. All of a sudden, Abbadon turns and catches Izzy with a backhanded blow that sends her spinning to the ground. Coughing blood, the female Lightwood begins to get to her feet; Abbadon knocks her down again, and this time she stays down, unmoving. The demon begins to move towards Clary again, but Jace is frozen, staring at Alec.

       I grit my teeth, moving gingerly to cover Alec’s ears before letting out a bloodcurdling shriek, hoping either to jolt Jace into action or alert Simon. Jace spins towards Clary, and I push myself up from the floor, scooping up a discarded Jehoel from its place on the floor. Jace flings a seraph blade, which lodges in the things chest, like some sort of bizarrely misplaced unicorn horn. Abbadon snarls, making a grab for Jace.

       Jace, being Jace, decides to jump over the grasping hand and tackle the demon, swinging onto its back and bringing his seraph blade down on its head again and again and again and again—but then the Greater Demon backs into the wall, meaning that my brother has to either drop or get crushed. He chooses the former, falling to the ground and landing lightly, raising his seraph blade again. But this time, Abbadon is too fast for him, lashing out with one hand and knocking the blonde into the stairs.

       Jace goes down, but he’s only a few feet away from me. As the Greater Demon reaches with its talons, I lunge, kicking them away and slashing with Jehoel. A howl, and then I’m pinned down by Abbadon’s talons. I spot my brother roll away, and then a flash of silver and black out of the corner of my eye alerting me to Jak’s presence. 

       “Tell them to give me the Cup,” Abbadon snarls, talons hovering just above my skin. “Tell them to give it to me and I will let them live.” But then the front door to the apartment is flung open and the demon leans away from the sunlight spilling through, towards me, on the the taloned hand that’s pinning my leg down—

       I scream as the talon goes straight through my leg and into the floorboards. As the demon dissolves, I yank the solid part of the talon out of my leg, pressing a hand to the gaping wound to stem the flow of blood and hissing as the demon dust burns my skin. With shaking hands, I scrabble around for my stele before realizing that Clary has it. A jolt of pain travels through my leg, and then Jak is suddenly beside me, warm hands searching for any injuries.

       “Ribs,” I grit out. “Broken, probably.” I’m getting dizzy. The pain in my back is escalating, little by little. I shudder, closing my eyes. Warmth envelops me, and then I’m moving. Jak must have picked me up. I’m set down, and then the sound of chatter invades me ears. Something hits the floor.

       “Damn it.” Jace.

       “What’s going on?” Simon.

       “It cut him with its talons. There’s demon poison in him. The Marks won't work. What the fuck happened to Jess?”

       “Alec. Can you hear me?” Isabelle. “Maybe we could—”

       “Take them to the hospital. I’ll help you carry him to the van. There’s a Methodist down on Seventh Avenue—”

       “No hospitals. We need to get them to the Institute.”

       “But—”

       “They won’t know how to treat them in a hospital. He’s been cut by a Greater Demon, and I don’t know about Jessa, but it looks bad. No mundane doctor would know how to heal those wounds.”

       “All right. Let’s get them to the car.” There’s shifting, and then a low curse.

       “By the Angel, Jessamine, how did you do that?”

       “Isabelle, hurry!” Jak picks me up. He’s warm. Huh, I didn’t expect the demon poison to have this much effect on me.

       “Quick, get them both into the van.” My right leg feels heavy, drenched in something hot and sticky. Blood, I’m guessing. A door opens. I’m set on something soft.

       “Drive fast, mundane.” Jace. “Drive like hell was following you.” Pain wracks my body, my back, ribs and leg specifically, and I convulse, nearly falling off of the seat. My vision blurs, but then I’m readjusted and something solid is pressed into my hand. Jehoel. I grip the seraph blade tightly.


	22. Chapter 22

       “How much farther?”

       “Maybe ten minutes.” Clary. “Simon’s driving as fast as he can.”

       “I know.” Izzy. “Simon—what you did, that was incredible. You moved so fast. I wouldn’t have thought a mundane could have thought of something like that.”

       “You mean shooting out the skylight?” Simon again. My vision is blacking out. “It hit me after you guys went inside. I was thinking about the skylight and how you’d said demons couldn’t stand direct sun. So, actually, it took me a while to act on it. Don’t feel bad you can’t even see that skylight unless you know it’s there.”

       “It was well done.”

       “So if you don’t mind telling me—that thing, the demon—where did it come from?” 

       “It was Madame Dorothea.” Clary. “I mean, it was sort of her.”

       “She was never exactly a pinup, but I don’t remember her looking that bad.”

       “I think she was possessed. She wanted me to give her the Cup. Then she opened the Portal…” Clary.

       “It was clever.” Jace again. My head is spinning, and I’m pretty sure that that’s bad. “The demon possessed her, then hid the majority of its ethereal form just outside the Portal, where the Sensor wouldn’t register it. So we went in expecting to fight a few Forsaken. Instead we found ourselves facing a Greater Demon. Abbadon—one of the Ancients. The Lord of the Fallen.” 

       “Well, it looks like the Fallen will just have to learn to get along without him from now on.”

       “He’s not dead. Hardly anyone’s ever killed a Greater Demon. You have to kill them in their physical and ethereal forms before they’ll die. We just scared him off.”

       “Oh. What about Madame Dorothea? Will she be all right now that—”

       “Why aren’t we there yet?”

       “We are here. I just don’t want to crash into a wall.” I huff out a faint laugh at that remark. I feel the van stop moving, then Jak picks me up again, beginning to walk. Cool air on my face turns stuffy, then the ground beneath Jak seems to move up. It stops, and then there’s more walking before I’m set down on a bed of some sort.

       Infirmary cot, probably. I convulse as another wave of pain courses through me. Something wet trickles from my mouth. It’s tangy and metallic. Blood. A rib must have punctured a lung. Something hot is pressed to my skin, then moves over me. Stele. Somebody’s Marking me. When the burning stops, the pain in my midsection fades away gradually. Gentle hands on my leg, and then the pain there fades away. My jacket is taken off, making me think about the picture tucked into the inside pocket. And that's when I realize it. I grit my teeth, gathering the last of my strength to sit up.

       “Magnus,” I blurt, the pain in my back a constant sensation. “Tell Hodge. Library.” My vision focuses a bit more, and then I realize that it’s Jak and Isabelle at the foot of my bed, bandaging my leg. The two exchange looks, then Jak moves, scooping me up. Isabelle murmurs what I assume are directions to the library, then Jak is moving. My silver and black-haired twin pushes a set of doors open with his hip and we enter the room. I vaguely realize that Jace, Clary and Hodge are already there. My twin sets me down on one of the sofas near the fire.

       “Magnus,” I tell Jak urgently. “Call him.” Jak hesitates, but then glances over my head, presumably at Jace, before nodding and taking off. Jace is crouching down in front of me all of a sudden.

       “What did you want to tell me?” he asks urgently. I shake my head slowly as the room spins.

       “Hodge has to know,” I manage between winces. The aforementioned old man is suddenly behind Jace, who’s on the floor, and then I look up into the old man's eyes, they’re full of regret and shame as his hand descends on my head. My vision goes dark.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

       When I wake up, I’m on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with Jace sitting at the end of the bed, looking at me with relief in his gaze. I sit up slowly. I note that my head isn’t spinning anymore, that my leg is numb, but I can detect a pressure around it, as well as the pressure around my midsection.

       “Where am I?” I ask flatly.

       “Don’t know,” my blonde brother replies. “Hodge knocked me out and I woke up here.” I rub my temples wearily, the pounding in my head very much there. I look at the blonde. Something’s wrong with him, I can see it in his blue eyes.

       “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say quietly. My brother looks torn, somewhere between happy, confused and devastated, before he looks at his hands.

       “Jess, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.” I snort, thinking back to my earlier realisation as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, jolts of pain traveling up my right leg as I do. 

       “Try me,” I reply bitterly, yet tiredly. Jace looks back up at me before speaking in a low voice.

       “It’s Valentine. He’s my father. And he’s here.” I suck in a sharp breath, feeling like I’d just been punched in the gut.

       “How?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m not reacting like I should, why I’m not screaming at him, or at least asking him if he’s sure.

       “He raised me. Disguised as Michael Wayland.” I groan, dropping my face into my hands as I sit back down on the soft bed. Disguised as Michael Wayland. Wayland, Wayland, Wayland. Michael Wayland. The distant relative. I look back up with a whispered curse. Jace nods, as if he’s reading my mind, confirming my thoughts. “You too.” Anger clouds my mind, but I quickly tuck it away, in that secluded corner of my mind where I put everything close to anger or fear. More keeps coming, so I redirect my thoughts from there.

       “Where’s Jehoel?” I mutter in askance, lifting my head from my hands. Jace frowns.

       “I don’t know. Didn’t you have it on you earlier?” I nod numbly.

       “Jak must have it. He might still find us.” The blonde frowns at me, but as he opens his mouth, the door flies open and Pangborn bursts in.

       “We’re under attack!” he exclaims. “Get your things and get to the safe room.” Jace shoots to his feet, and I tumble off of the bed, almost collapsing as my right leg gives. Jace catches me quickly.

       “By who?” Pangborn’s eyes are wild.

       “Werewolves.” He runs back out before Jace can question him any further. I sigh, slumping against my brothers side. Jace leads me over to the door, grabbing something from beside it as we leave, propping me against the wall once we’re outside.

       “Here,” he says, holding out the objects that he’d grabbed. I recognize them as crutches. “Hurry,” Jace urges, looking up and down the hall. I oblige quickly, following my blonde brother down the hallway and into what looks like a dining room. Paneled walls and the endlessly long dining table gleam, the table set with delicate China. A gold-framed mirror hangs on the far wall, set between two oil portraits in heavy-looking frames. Everything glitters under the torchlight. I frown.

       “Why’re we here?” I deman. Jace turns around in order to face me.

       “It's a safe room. Valentine set it up. He'll be here soon to get us out.” I curse viciously, stumbling to the side in order to drop a crutch and lean it up against the table, cursing my numbed leg. 

       “Jace, are you crazy? This is the man who abused us growing up, who trained us to be monsters! How can you possibly trust him in any way?” I turn to face my brother, but he has a dead look in his eyes.

       “He's my father,” he replies simply. The doors suddenly bang open, and I shift, snatching up my crutches, only to see Clary standing in the doorway.

       “Jace!” she exclaims. “Jace!” And then she runs towards him, red hair flying. He catches the redhead as she flings herself at him.

       “Clary. Clary, what are you doing here?” he asks urgently. Her voice is muffled against Jace’s shirt. “He's going to have to call them off,” Jace insists, pulling away from Clary. The girl looks at him, confused.

       “What?”

       “Luke,” Jace clarifies. “He's going to have to call off his pack. There’s been a misunderstanding.” Clary makes a noise of disbelief.

       “What, you kidnapped yourself? Come on, Jace.” I note bitterly that Clary makes no sign of acknowledging my presence. The redhead yanks on the blonde's wrist, but Jace resists. She looks at him, astonished. “Are those your clothes?” she questions, obviously confused. “And—you’re all bandaged up…” She trails off. “Valentine seems to be taking awfully good care of you.” My older brother smiles at the petite girl kindly.

       “If I told you the truth, you’d say I was crazy.”

       “No,” Clary insists, “I wouldn’t.”

       “Our father gave me these clothes,” he says.

       “Jace, your father is dead” Clary says carefully.

       “No.” The blonde is shaking his head. “I thought he was, but he isn’t. It’s all been a mistake.” Clary’s voice is suspicious.

       “Is this something Valentine told you? Because he’s a liar, Jace. Remember what Hodge said. If he’s telling you your father is alive, it’s a lie to get you to do what he wants.” I snort, but Clary ignores me like she’s been ignoring me for this whole conversation.

       “I’ve seen our father,” Jace insists. “I’ve talked to him. He gave me this.” He tugs on his shirt to indicate it. “Our father isn’t dead. Valentine didn’t kill him. Hodge lied to me. All these years we thought he was dead, but he wasn’t.” I make a noise of distaste at that, hooking my good leg around a chair and pulling it towards me in order to sit down in it and watch the drama unfold. Clary looks around quickly, unease written all over her face. 

       “Well, if your father’s really in this place, then where is he? Did Valentine kidnap him too?” Jace’s eyes shine with excitement.

       “My father—”

       The doors to the room swing open and someone walks in. It doesn’t take me any longer than a moment for me to identify him as Valentine Morgenstern, the man who pretended to be Michael Wayland for more than ten years, the man I see in my dreams. His silvery, close-cropped hair gleams like a helmet, mouth hard and set in a tight line. He wears a waist sheath on his thick leather belt, the hilt of a long sword protruding from it.

       “So have you gathered you things?” the psychotic man asks, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Our Forsaken can hold off the wolf-men for only so—”

       He breaks off mid-sentence at the sight of Clary, and I see a flicker of genuine astonishment in the man's eyes.

       “What is this?” he demands, turning to Jace. The redhead fumbles for a dagger and raises it, but Jace catches her wrist.

       “No,” The petite girl looks astonished.

       “But, Jace—”

       “Clary,” my brother says firmly. “This is my father.”


	23. Chapter 23

       “I see I’ve interrupted something,” Valentine comments dryly. “Son, would you care to tell me who this is? One of the Lightwood children, perhaps.”

       “No,” Jace says, shaking his head. “This is Clary. Clarissa Fray. She’s a friend of mine. She—”

       “Where did you come by that blade, young lady?” the silvery-haired man interrupts.

       “Jace gave it to me,” Clary replies, the coldness in her voice equivalent to that of a blizzard.

       “Of course he did,” Valentine says mildly. “May I see it?”

       “No!” the redhead says defensively, taking a step back. However, Jace simply plucks the  weapon out of her hand, looking at her apologetically. I stand abruptly, swaying on my feet before grabbing my crutch to lean on.

       “You still don’t understand, Clary,” Jace says to the redhead kindly. He walks over to Valentine, handing him the dagger. “Here you go, father.” I growl in faint annoyance, clunking over to Clary to stand beside her protectively as my former father examines the dagger.

       “This is a kindjal, a Circassian dagger. This particular one used to be one of a matched pair. Here, see the star of the Morgensterns, carved into the blade.” He points before turning the blade over. “I’m surprised the Lightwoods never noticed it.” 

       “I never showed it to them,” Jace replies by way of explanation. “They let me have my own private things. They didn’t pry.”

       “Of course they didn’t,” Valentine muses, handing the kindjal back to my brother. “They thought you were Michael Wayland’s son.” The blonde slides the dagger into his belt, then looks up again once the task is completed.

       “So did I,” he murmurs softly. Valentine’s attention shifts to Clary and me, the expression on his face almost amused.

       “Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to sit down now, Clary, Jessamine.” The enraged redhead crosses her arms.

       “No.” I shake my head.

       “As you like,” my former caretaker replies, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down at the head of the table. It takes a moment, but Jace sits down as well. “But you are going to be hearing some things that might make you wish you had taken a chair.” I wrinkle my nose, letting go of my crutch, trusting Clary to steady me, in order to sign an answer. Even if I don’t have my stele to draw a speak in tongues rune, I know that Valentine knows ASL, so I’ll give him shit whenever I can.

        _See things wish didn’t see,_ I reply flatly.

       “I’ll let you know if that happens,” Clary says briskly, even though she probably doesn’t know what I just signed.

       “Very well,” my former father replies, sitting back with his hands behind his head. “Clary,” he  muses thoughtfully. “Short for Clarissa? Not a name I would have chosen.” I frown, wondering why he isn’t announcing to the whole world that Clary is his daughter. Because of Jace, I realize. Jace would be devastated. It’s not exactly a big secret that he and Clary are in some sort of relationship. 

       “I don’t really care what you would have chosen,” Clary snaps sharply. 

       “I am sure that you don’t,” Valentine replies, sitting forwards.

       “You’re not Jace’s father,” the redhead barrels on adamantly. “You’re trying to trick us. Jace’s father and Jessa’s uncle was Michael Wayland. The Lightwoods know it. Everyone knows it. Jessa told us so herself.”

       “The Lightwoods were misinformed,” Valentine replies smoothly. “They truly believed—believe that Jace is the son of their friend Michael, and that Jessamine was his niece. As does the Clave if they even knew of Jessamine and Jakson’s current existence. Even the Silent Brothers do not know who they really are. Although soon enough, they will.”

       “But the Wayland ring—”

       I shake my head, having figured this part out for myself already.

       “Ah, yes,” my former caretaker says, looking at Jace’s hand, where the ring glitters on his pointer finger. “The ring. Funny, isn’t it, how an M worn upside down resembles a W? Of course, if you’d bothered to think about it, you’d probably have thought it a little strange that the symbol of the Wayland family would be a falling star. But not at all strange that it would be the symbol of the Morgensterns.” Clary simply stares, confused.

       “I have no idea what you mean.”

       “I forget how regrettably lax mundane education is,” Valentine says dismissively. “Morgenstern means ‘morning star.’ As in ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!’”

       “You mean Satan,” Clary states flatly.

       “Or any great power lost out of a refusal to serve,” Valentine says with a shrug. “As mine was. I would not serve a corrupt government, and for that I lost my family, my lands, almost my life—” 

       I snort.

       “The Uprising was your fault!” Clary snaps. “People died in it! Shadowhunters like you!”

       “Clary,” my older brother says soothingly, leaning forwards. “Just listen to him, will you? It’s not like you thought. Hodge lied to us.”

       “I know,” the redhead beside me snaps. “He betrayed us to Valentine. He was Valentine’s pawn.”

       “No,” Jace insists. “No, Hodge was the one who wanted the Mortal Cup all along. He was the one who sent the Raveners after your mother. Our father—Valentine only found out about it afterwards, and came to stop him. He brought your mother here to heal her, not to hurt her.” I nail Valentine with a glare that clearly says ‘you will pay.’

       “And you believe that crap?” Clary asks, voicing my thoughts. “It isn't true. Hodge was working for Valentine. They were in it together, getting the Cup. He set us up, it's true, but he was just a tool.” 

       “But he was the one who needed the Mortal Cup,” Jace insists. “So he could get the curse off him and flee before my father told the Clave about everything he'd done.” I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

       “I know that isn't true!” Clary disagrees hotly. “I was there.” She turns on Valentine. “I was in the room when you came to get the Cup. You courtly see me, but I was there. I saw you. You took the Cup and you lifted the curse off Hodge, he couldn't have done it by himself. He said so.”

       “I did lift his curse, but I was moved by pity,” Valentine replies measuredly. “He seemed so pathetic.” I snort, leaning on my crutch once more.

        _No pity. Feel nothing._

       “That enough, Jessa, Clary!” Jace exclaims. We both stare at him, the redhead in astonishment, me in anger. “Don't talk to our father like that,” the blonde implores me. “And just don't talk to him like that,” he says to the petite girl at my side. 

       “He's not your father!” Clary yells. My brother looks like she'd slapped him.

       “Why are you so determined not to believe us?”

       “Because she loves you,” Valentine says easily, dropping the bomb at exactly the right moment. “She fears I am taking advantage of you,” he continues. “That I have brainwashed you. It isn't so, of course. If you looked into your own memories, Clary, you would know it. And I daresay my dear Jessamine knows it already.”

       “Clary,” Jace says, beginning to stand, “I—” 

       “Sit down,” Valentine commands sharply. “Let her come to it o her own, Jonathan.” My brother subsides instantly, dropping back into his chair. Clary looks lost.

       “I thought your name was Jace,” she says faintly. “Did you lie about that, too?”

       “No,” Jace reassures her. “Jace is a nickname.”

       “For what?” the redhead demands.

       “It's my initials,” the blonde replies. “J.C.”

       “Jonathan Christopher,” Clary murmurs. Jace’s forehead crinkles, eyebrows drawing together in puzzlement.

       “How did you—” 

       “Jace, I had thought to spare you,” Valentine cuts in, voice like honey. “I thought the story of a mother who died would hurt you less than the story of a mother who abandoned you before your first birthday.” Jace's fingers twitch and tighten. I lean closer to Clary, leg tingling.

       “My mother is alive?” Jace whispers.

       “She is,” Valentine confirms. “Alive, and asleep in one of the downstairs rooms at this very moment.” My brother’s mouth opens, but his father cuts him off. “Yes. Jocelyn is your mother, Jonathan. And Clary—Clary is your sister.” Jace’s hand jerks, knocking one of the filled wine glasses over, the wine spilling across the white tablecloth.

       “Jonathan,” Valentine scolds. Jace’s complexion is a sort of greenish white.

       “That's not true,” my brother insists. “There's been a mistake. It couldn't possibly be true.” His father looks at him steadily.

       “A cause for rejoicing, I would have thought,” the silvery-haired man says in a low tone. “Yesterday you were an orphan, Jonathan. And now a father, a mother, a sister and two cousins you never knew you had.”

       “It isn't possible,” Jace insists. “Clary isn't my sister. If she were…”

       “Then what?” Valentine questions, something evil glinting in his eyes. The blonde doesn't reply, looking nauseous. Clary staggers over to him.

       “Jace—” 

       He jerks away from her, fingers knotting in the tablecloth.

       “Don't. Tell me it's not true,” Jace begs, gaze trained on the tablecloth. The redhead swallows.

       “I can't do that.”

       “So you admit now that I've been telling the truth all this time?” Valentine asks, his voice so smug that it makes me want to drop the crutch and lunge at him, no matter how much damage it would do to my leg.

       “No,” Clary shoots back. “You're telling lies with a little bit of the truth mixed in, is all.”

       “This grows tiresome,” my former father says dismissively. “If you want to hear the truth, Clarissa, this is the truth. You have heard stories of the Uprising and so you think I am a villain. Is that correct?” Clary says nothing, just looks at Jace, who looks like he's about to throw up. 

       “It is simple, really,” Valentine continues. “The story you heard was true in some of its parts, but not in others—lies mixed in with a little truth, as you said. The fact is that Michael Wayland is not and has never been Jace, Jakson or Jessamine’s father. Wayland was killed during the Uprising. I assumed Michael’s name and place when I fled the Glass City with my son. It was easy enough; Wayland had no real relations, and his closest friends, the Lightwoods, were in exile.

       He himself would have been on disgrace for his part in the Uprising, so I lived that disgraced life, quietly enough, for six years, alone with Jace on the Waylands’ estate. And then my sister died in childbirth and her husband committed suicide, meaning that I got both Jakson and Jessamine. I read my books. I raised my children. And I bided my time.”


	24. Chapter 24

       I realize vaguely that Jak, Jace, Valentine and I are all left-handed, just as Valentine continues his monologue.

       “Ten years on, I received a letter. The writer of this letter indicated that he knew my true identity, and if I were not prepared to take certain steps, he would reveal it. I did not know who the letter was from, but it did not matter. I was not prepared to give the writer of it what he wanted. Besides, I knew my safety was compromised, and would be unless he thought me dead, beyond his reach. I staged my death a second time, with the help of Blackwell and Pangborn, and for my children's own safety made sure that they would be sent to the protection of the Lightwoods.” 

       I snort derisively.

        _Look where am,_ I sign flatly. _Mind wipe. Mind probe._ Valentine’s eyes flicker with anger, but he covers it up quickly.

       “So you let them think you were dead?” Clary demands. “You just let them think you were dead, all these years? That's despicable.” I shake my head, a faint grin on my lips.

        _Never happier,_ I inform the redhead, even though she probably doesn't understand me.

       “Don't,” my brother says again. I'm not sure if it's directed at Clary or me. By now, the blonde has raised his hands to cover his face. “Don't, Clary.” Valentine looks at his son with a smile.

       “Jonathan, Jessamine and Jakson had to think I was dead, yes. They had to think he was Michael Wayland’s son, or the Lightwoods would not have protected him as they did. It was Michael they owed a debt to, not me. It was on Michael’s account that they loved him, not mine.”

       “Maybe they loved him on his own account,” Clary snaps.

       “A commendably sentimental interpretation, but unlikely,” Valentine muses. “You do not know the Lightwoods like I once did.” Jace flinches. “It hardly matters, in the end,” the silvery-haired man adds. “The Lightwoods were intended as protection for my children, not as a replacement family, you see. He has a family. He has a father.” I growl, then do something that I haven't done in years, small amounts of anger and frustration bubbling out of me like a tidal wave and urging me to speak.

       “The Lightwoods love him of their own account,” I snap, voice rising. “I've seen them, how they interact with each other. Alec passes Jace the salt when they're eating Chinese, because he knows Jace hates his without salt. Isabelle orders mu shu pork without asking because she knows that Jace loves it. From what Alec tells me, Max absolutely idolizes Jace and does everything he can to make him happy. They all do this because they love him, not out of a sense of duty.” Valentine looks at me appraisingly, a sneer creeping onto his face.

       “Sentimental and vocal. I never knew you had either in you, Jessamine.” That one sentence makes all of the anger and frustration die, my vocal cords seizing up, because I'd just spoken in front of Valentine. Jace makes a noise in the back of his throat.

       “My mother—”

       “Fled after the Uprising,” Valentine cuts in. “I was a disgraced man. The Clave would have hunted me down had they thought I lived. She could not bear her association with me, and ran.” The pain in his voice is palpable and stands out like a sore thumb—but its fake. “I did not know she was pregnant at the time. With Clary. As for Christina—Jessamine and Jakson’s mother, my sister—she married a mundane and ran off with him just before the Uprising to give birth to them in peace.” The man smiles a sneering, deadly smile. “But blood calls to blood, as they say. Fate has brought us to this convergence. Our family, together again.” I clear my throat.

       “Well, most of us,” he amends when he notices that Jak’s absent. “We can use the Portal. Go to Idris. Back to the manor house.” My breathing quickens, because six years ago, I'd promised myself that I'd never return to that Angels damned place. I. Am. Not. Going. Back. My blonde brother shivers a bit but nods, staring numbly at his hands. A sudden wave of pain wracks my back, making me stumble and lean against the table for support.

       “We'll be together there,” Valentine says, seemingly unaware of my pain. “As we should be.”

       “I am not going anywhere with you, and neither is my mother,” Clary snarls.

       “He's right, Clary,” Jace finally says, voice hoarse. My brother flexes his hands, eyes drifting over to me before snapping back onto the petite redhead. “It's the only place for us to go. We can sort things out there.”

       “You can't be serious—” 

       A gargantuan crash comes from downstairs, and Clary jumps, Jace’s hand goes to his belt and I unsheath the hunting knife shoved up my right sleeve.

       “Father, they're—” 

       “They're on their way,” Valentine says, rising to his feet. I drop the crutch, muscling through the jittery tingles that course through my leg, limping over to Jace.

       “What do you—” 

       I snatch a seraph blade off of his belt. The blonde makes an exasperated noise.

       “Father said that you can't—” 

       I growl in warning at him, holding up Jehoel.

       “Liar,” I murmur so that only he can hear me. “When we get home, we're having a talk about ownership, asking nicely and joint custody.” The doors to the dining room are flung open again, revealing a man who stands in the doorway. He's covered in blood, jeans and shirt dark and clotted with the red liquid, the lower half of his face bearded with it. His hands are red to the wrist, the blood that coats them still wet and running. It's Luke Graymark, leader of the Brocelind wolf pack. Clary makes a run for the man, who gives her a one-armed hug before gently pushing her away.

       “I'm covered in blood,” he says. “Don't worry—it isn't mine.”

       “Then whose is it?” Valentine demands. Jace has moved behind his father at this point, leaving me leaning on the side of the long table.

       “Pangborn’s,” Luke replies. I send Luke a thumbs up, limping over to Clary and Luke, Jehoel raised in Jace and Valentine's direction.

       “I see,” Valentine replies, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you tear out his throat with your teeth?”

       “Actually, I killed him with this,” the werewolf replied, holding up a dagger with his free hand. It's a kindjal, like the one that Clary had. “Do you remember it?” The silvery-haired Shadowhunter’s eyes fix on the small knife, jaw tightening. “I do,” Luke continues steadily. “You handed it to me seventeen years ago and told me to end my life with it.” Up close, the kindjal looks like a cross between a dagger and a sword, the blade small and needle-tipped. “And I nearly did.”

       “Do you expect me to deny it?” Valentine asks, real pain in the man's voice, the memory of an old grief. “I tried to save you from yourself, Lucian. I made a grave mistake. If only I'd had the strength to kill you myself, you could have died a man.”

       “Like you?” Luke asks bitterly. “A man who chains his unconscious wife to a bed in the hopes of torturing her for information when she wakes up? That's your bravery?” Jace is staring at Valentine in faint disbelief.

       “I didn't torture her,” Valentine disagrees smoothly. “She is chained for her own protection.”

       “Against what?” the werewolf demands, stepping farther into the room and releasing Clary. “The only thing endangering her is you. The only thing that ever endangered her was you. She'd spent her life running to get away from you.”

       “I loved her,” Valentine says, almost angry. “I never would have hurt her. It was you who turned her against me.” Luke laughs, a tired, bitter sound. 

       “She didn't need me to turn her against you. She learned to hate you on her own. Just like Christina.”

       “That is a lie!” Valentine roars, drawing his sword and leveling the blade at Luke's heart. Clary gasps, then attempts to push past me, but I meet Luke’s eyes and see his desire to keep Clary safe. So I push back against the redhead, gritting my teeth when her elbow connects with my ribs. In front of us, Jace takes a step towards his father.

       “Father—”

       “Jonathan, be silent,” Valentine shouts. It's too late; Luke has already seen Jace.

       “Jonathan?” he whispers, obviously surprised. Jace’s mouth twists into a snarl.

       “Don't you call me that,” he snaps fiercely, eyes blazing with contained fury. “I’ll kill you myself if you call me that.” The werewolf doesn’t take his eyes off of Jace as he continues to speak.

       “Your mother would be proud,” he says quietly. His gaze flickers over to me. “Both of your mothers.”

       “I don’t have a mother,” Jace snarls, looking absolutely sure of the fact, except that his hands shake at his sides. “The woman who gave birth to me walked away from me before I learned to remember her face. I was nothing to her, so she was nothing to me.”

       “Your mother is not the one who walked away from you,” Luke says, gaze moving to a certain silvery-haired Shadowhunter. “I would have thought even you were above using your own flesh and blood as bait. I suppose I was wrong.”

       “That’s enough,” Valentine says in a languid, yet threatening, hungry tone. “Give me my daughter or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

       “I’m not your daughter,” Clary growls fiercely, but Luke holds out a hand to stop her.

       “Get out of here,” he commands. “Get to where it’s safe.”

       “I’m not leaving you!” the redhead insists.

       “Clary, I mean it. Get out of here.” The werewolf sounds sincere and serious as he lifts his kindjal. “This is not your fight.”


	25. Chapter 25

       Clary stumbles for the door, but all of a sudden, Jace is blocking her. The siblings begin a hurried, whispered conversation that seems to be occupying them both, so I turn my attention back to Valentine and Luke, Shadowhunter and werewolf, just as another wave of pain courses through my back, making me vocalize a small noise of pain before refocusing.

       The Nephilim and Downworlder are engaged in battle and I can’t do anything. This is how it works; they both fight until one of them lies dead and lifeless. As I watch, Luke slips past Valentine’s guard and deals him a blow across the shoulder. Blood flows, staining the cloth of my former father’s white shirt. To my dismay, Valentine merely throws his head back and laughs, just as yet another wave of pain overtakes my back.

       “A true hit,” he acknowledges. “I hardly thought you had it in you, Lucian.” The ex-Shadowhunter stands tall and proud.

       “You taught me that move yourself.”

       “But that was years ago, and since then, you’ve hardly had need f a knife, have you? Not when you have claws and fangs at your disposal.”

       “All the better to tear your heart out with,” Luke replies, voice strong and steady. I want to laugh. That’s another thing ruined by the Shadow World. No more Red Riding Hood for me. Valentine just shakes his head.

       “You tore my heart out years ago,” he says, real sorrow coloring his voice. “When you betrayed and deserted me with my own kin.” The werewolf strikes again, but Valentine is ready, moving swiftly back and out of range.

       “It was you who turned my wife against her own kind. You came to her when she was weakest, with your piteousness, your helpless need. I was distant and she thought you loved her. She was a fool.” I throw a quick glance over at Jace and Clary, seeing that they’re both occupied. A moment or so later, I watch Jace whirl on Clary, face livid.

       Luke is distracted for a moment, and that’s when Valentine strikes, lunging in and driving his sword into the werewolf’s collarbone, on the side that he holds his dagger. Luke’s eyes widen as Valentine jerks his blade back, the shining blade sliding out of Luke’s body, red to the hilt. The Shadowhunter laughs and strikes again, knocking the Downworlders weapon out of his hand. He then kicks it hard, sending the weapon clattering along under the table.

       The silvery-haired Shadowhunter raises his blade again, preparing to deal the final blow. In that split second, a few things happen. Clary twists away from my brother and races to Luke, diving in front of him. A final spasm of pain wracks my body, and then I slide along the smooth floor, coming to a stop in front of both Luke and Clary, arms wrapping around them both as pitch-black wings erupt from my back, tearing my tank top and curling over us to form a protective dome that sends Valentine’s sword skidding off to the side with a shriek of metal. 

       I pull away from Clary and Luke, mind in a haze of pain, surprise and utter shock, unable to process anything. I nearly tip over from the extra weight of my new wings, stumbling a bit as I stagger upright, trying to avoid falling on my ass. After that, I have to lean against a chair to remain upright. I feel the presence of somebody behind me and flinch away, toppling over to fall on my ass, scrambling away from the person on the floor before I stumble upright, clutching the table for support.

       The person in question had been Valentine, looking at my wings in awe. I tremble, dropping to the floor again, wings dragging, heavy like thousand-pound weights.

       “I need a bandage,” Clary says in a choked voice, breaking the silence. “Some cloth, anything.” Jace moves, but not to the redhead, to me, holding out a hand to help me up. I look at him, fear, terror and disbelief clouding my vision as I lean on him to stay balanced. My leg throbs, my ribs ache and my back is positively burning. Leaning a bit away from my brother, I manage to keep myself balanced and upright, although I keep a close eye on Valentine.

       “Don’t move, Jonathan,” the Shadowhunter says in a voice like steel, and Jace freezes, hand already reaching towards his pocket. “Clarissa, this man is an enemy of our family, an enemy of the Clave” Valentine continues in the same tone. “We are hunters, and that means sometimes we are killers. Surely you understand that.”

       “Demon hunters,” the redhead snaps fiercely. “Demon killers. Not murderers. There’s a difference.”

       “He is a demon, Clarissa,” Valentine insists. “A demon with a man’s face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself.”

       “Monster?” Clary echoes, face taking on the expression of someone thinking quickly. And when she speaks next, her voice has the same steel in it as Valentine’s. “Luke isn’t a monster. Or a murderer. You are.”

       “Clary!” Jace exclaims. I press a hand to his forearm. Clary ignores the blonde, eyes fixed on Valentine.

       “You murdered your wife’s parents, not in battle but in cold blood. And I bet you murdered Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland's neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave—you didn’t care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood, that’s monstrous.” A spasm of rage contorts Valentine’s features into something ugly.

       “That’s enough!” he roars, raising the sword again. “Jonathan! Drag your sister out of my way, or by the Angel, I’ll knock her down to kill the monster she’s protecting!” For the briefest moment, Jace hesitates, but then he’s raising his head to reply to my former father. 

       “Certainly, Father,” he replies, already crossing the room to my cousin, dragging her away from the werewolf. I grit my teeth, stumbling over to Luke and leaning heavily on my right leg, crutch abandoned somewhere by the table. I kneel down next to the werewolf, but then a hand grabs my hair and I lash out too late. Valentine throws me across the wall, and as my wings make contact with the wooden panels of the wall, I release a howl of pain as I hear something break.

       With one smooth, swift move, Valentine shoves Luke with a booted toe, causing the werewolf to produce a strangled choking sound. 

       “Leave him alone!” Clary demands in a yell, trying in vain to free herself from Jace’s grasp.

       “If only I had thought to bring with me a blade of real silver, I coul have dispatched you in the true manner of your kind, Lucian,” Valentine muses aloud.

       “At least let me get up,” Luke says. “Let me die on my feet.” The silvery-haired Shadowhunter looks at the werewolf along the length of his sword and shrugs.

       “You can die on your back or on your knees,” he replied indifferently. “But only a man deserves to die standing, and you are not a man.”

       “NO!” Clary shouts. Luke begins to climb onto his knees, avoiding Clary’s gaze and looking in the redhead’s direction at all. Jace and Clary have a heated conversation, and I growl, rolling to my feet as well as I can with the extra weight of my wings on my back, scooping Jehoel up from its place on the floor.


	26. Chapter 26

       Valentine raises his sword high over his head.

       “LUKE!” Clary shrieks. The blade goes down—and hits the empty place that Luke had occupied mere seconds before. The werewolf lies off to the side, Jace having pushed him out of the way.

       “I think you should leave,” my brother says softly. My uncle can only stare incredulously.

       “What did you say?” Behind my brother, Luke pulls himself up into a sitting position, a cold glare nailed at Valentine. I sway on my feet, but manage to make my way behind Valentine silently, flipping Jehoel and sliding it across the floor without a sound, towards Jace hilt first.

       “I think you heard me, father,” Jace replies quietly.

       “Jonathan Morgenstern—” 

       Jace surges up all of a sudden, Jehoel in his hand and aimed at Valentine’s heart, effectively cutting off the silvery-haired Shadowhunters whip-like voice.

       “That's not my name,” the blonde says quietly. “My name is Jace Wayland.” My former father's eyes are fixed upon my brother, hate burning in them like a raging fire.

       “Wayland?” he roars. “You have no Wayland blood! Michael Wayland was a stranger to you—” 

       “So are you,” Jace points out calmly, jerking my seraph blade to the left. “Now move.” The older Shadowhunter shakes his head.

       “Never. I will not take orders from a child.”

       “I am a very well-trained child,” my brother replies mildly. “You instructed me yourself in the precise art of killing. I only need to move two fingers to cut your throat, did you know that?” My brother’s blue eyes are steely and hard. “I suppose you did.”

       “You're skilled enough,” Valentine says dismissively. But the older man is standing unnaturally still. Actions speak louder than words. “But you could not kill me. You have always been soft hearted.” 

       “Perhaps he couldn't,” Luke cuts in, on his feet now, pale and bloody but upright and steady. “But I could. And I'm not entirely sure he could stop me.” Valentine's gaze flickers between Jace and Luke.

       “You hear the monster threatening me, Jonathan,” the silvery-haired Shadowhunter says, probably in a last-ditch attempt to save himself. “You side with it?”

       “ _It_ has a point,” my blonde brother replies mildly. “I'm not entirely sure I could stop him if he wanted to do you damage. Werewolves heal so fast.” My uncle’s lip curls.

       “So like your mother, you prefer this creature, this half-breed demon thing, to your own blood, your own family?” Valentine spits. That makes me burst into peals of laughter that do not do my leg or balance any favors, forcing my to tumble over to the table and lean on it in order to stay upright.

       “You left us when we were children,” Jace replies in a measured voice. “You let us think you were dead and you sent us away to live with strangers. Jessa and Jak didn't even make it—they had to beat up Clave officials in order to escape memory wipes. You never told me I had a mother, a sister. You never told them that they had an aunt, another cousin. You left us alone.”

       “I did it for you—to keep you safe,” my former caretaker protests. I laugh harder, subsiding when Clary speaks up. 

       “If you cared about Jace, Jessa or Jak, if you cared about blood, you wouldn't have killed their grandparents. You wouldn't have let them suffer and you wouldn't have killed innocent people,” the redhead snaps.

       “Innocent?” Valentine snipes back, like we're in the wrong, not him. “No one is innocent in a war! They sided with Jocelyn against me! They would have let her take my son from me!” Luke lets out a low, hissing breath.

       “You knew she was going to leave you?” the werewolf demands. “You knew she was going to run, even before the Uprising?”

       “Of course I knew!” the Shadowhunter roars, mask cracked and rage and pain stark against his otherwise emotionless face. “I did what I had to to protect my own, and in the end I gave them more than they ever deserved: the funeral pyre awarded only to the greatest warriors of the Clave!” 

       “You burned them,” Clary states flatly, emotionlessly. There's sadness there too, though.

       “Yes!” Valentine shouts, enraged. “I burned them.” My brother makes a strangled choking noise.

       “My grandparents—” 

       “You never knew them,” Valentine says dismissively. “Don't pretend to a grief you do not feel.” **Yes** , I think quietly. **But we would have liked to know them.** Luke places a strong hand on Jace’s shoulder.

       “Steady,” he murmurs quietly. It's then that I notice that Jehoel trembles slightly in Jace’s grip. The petite redhead steps forwards quickly.

       “Jace—we need the Cup. Or you know what he'll do with it.” My brother licks his lips nervously.

       “The Cup, father. Where is it?”

       “In Idris,” my former father replies calmly. “Where you will never find it.” Jace’s hand shakes obviously now.

       “Tell me—” 

       “Give me the sword, Jonathan,” the werewolf requests calmly, even kindly.

       “What?” Jace murmurs, spaced out and focused solely on the man who's held at swordpoint. Clary takes another step forwards.

       “Give Luke the sword. Let him have it, Jace.” The blonde shakes his head.

       “I can't do that.” Another step forwards for the petite girl.

       “Yes, you can,” she says gently. “Please.” Luke approaches, placing a hand over Jace’s on the hilt of Jehoel.

       “You can let go now, Jonathan.” A miniscule pause. “Jace.” My brother relinquishes his hold on my seraph blade and the werewolf steps forwards in his place.

       “I have a suggestion,” Valentine announces in an even tone. I snort.

        _No kill?_ I guess sarcastically. Valentine laughs, the sound lacking any humor.

       “I would hardly lower myself to ask you for my life,” he replies, although I feel like the words are mostly aimed at Luke.

       “Good,” the werewolf replies, nudging my uncle’s chin with my blade. “I'm not going to kill you unless you force my hand, Valentine. I draw the line at murdering you in front of your own children and niece. What I want is the Cup.” The roaring downstairs suddenly reaches a crescendo, the volume getting louder now. I hear what sounds like footsteps in the corridors outside.

       “Luke—” 

       “I hear it,” Luke snaps, interrupting the redhead.

       “The Cup’s in Idris, I told you,” Valentine insists, gaze shifting to something past Luke.

       “If it's in Idris, you used the Portal to bring it there,” Luke says. “I'll go with you. Bring it back.” The werewolf’s eyes dart around before focusing again. There's an obvious increase in movement outside in the corridor, the sounds of shouting and things shattering. “Clary stay with the others. After we go through, you use the Portal to take you to a safe place.”

       “I won't leave here,” Jace protests. I snort, leveling my brother with a firm stare that clearly states that he is coming with whether it be willingly or not. Something thuds against the dining room door. Luke has to raise his voice in order to be heard.

       “Valentine, the Portal. Move.”

       “Or what?” the man in questions asks, staring at the door with a strange look.

       “I'll kill you if you force my hand,” Luke replies. “In front of them, or not. The Portal, Valentine. Now.” My uncle spreads his hands wide.

       “If you wish.” And then he steps backwards, just as the door explodes inwards, hinges scattering across the floor alongside bits of wood and nails. Luke ducks out of the way in order to avoid being crushed by the falling door, turning as he does so, seraph blade still clutched in one hand, and I slide across the floor, figuring that that would be more effective than running off-balance.

       In the doorway stands a wolf, all growling, brindled, sticking-up fur, shoulders hunched forward, lips curled back over snarling teeth and blood running from more than a few gashes in its pelt.


	27. Chapter 27

       I wince as I get to my feet, wobbling off balance like a drunk. I hear the familiar sound of Jace swearing, and when I turn to look my brother has already got a seraph blade in his hand. Clary, however, catches his wrist, gripping it with her small, delicate artist's hands.

       “Don't—he's a friend.” My brother shoots her an incredulous glance, but lowers his weapon all the same.

       “Alaric—”

       Luke shouts something in a language that I don't know, but then I notice Valentine’s hand creeping towards Jace’s pocket, where the blonde had tucked the kindjal. Jace lets out a shout as my uncle throws the dagger, Luke swings around, already raising his blade—and a certain something that's huge and a tawny gray cuts between the dagger and the alpha werewolf. A long, drawn-out howl is cut off as the blade strikes home.

       The wolf crumples at Luke’s feet, blood splattered all over his fur. Taking off at a slow, limping run, I use the momentum to slide along the smooth floors, arriving at the wolf’s side quickly, hands searching for the entry wound. Feebly, the wolf Luke had called Alaric claws at what I assume is the knife with his paws. I locate the hilt of the kindjal quickly, yanking it out as Valentine laughs.

       “And this is how you repay the unquestioning loyalty you bought so cheaply, Lucian,” he gloats. “By letting them die for you.” Alaric stills under my soothing hands and I feel my wings move stretching out to cover the wolf’s body from Valentine. Luke drops to his knees beside me and gives me a look. I groan quietly as I stagger to my feet, black wings now stained red with blood.

       Jace is hurrying after Valentine, which means that they're both heading towards the far wall of the dining room. Clary follows the three of us, snatching her kindjal up from where it lies underneath the table. I swear softly as the numbness in my legs and ribs begins to fade, meaning that bolts of quick, burning pain course through my right leg and torso.

       Jace still has his seraph blade out, holding it up to illuminate the gloomy room. Valentine turns and stands silhouetted in its light, back against the mirror, pressed against its surface.

       “Jace—” 

       My brother doesn't turn to look at the redhead.

       “Clary, I told you to wait.”

       “She's like her mother,” Valentine replies. I watch him closely, spotting one of his hands behind him, running it along the edge of the mirrors heavy golden gilt frame. “Doesn't like to do what she's told." Jace isn't shaking as much as before, but I can sense the tension in his taut posture.

       “I'll go with him to Idris, Clary,” the blonde says. “I'll bring the Cup back.”

       “No, you can't,” Clary disagrees.

       “Do you have a better idea?” Jace demands.

       “But Luke—”

       “Lucian is attending to a fallen comrade,” Valentine cuts in silkily. “As for the Cup and Idris, they are not far. Through the looking glass, one might say.” I eye the mirror behind my uncle warily as Jace’s eyes narrow.

       “The mirror is the Portal?” My former caretaker’s lips thin as he drops his hand, moving back from the mirror as the reflection in it swirls, changing like runny watercolor. It's a window to Idris, that I'm sure of, since I'm looking at the Wayland farm, the place where I'd spent five years of my life.

       “I told you it was not far,” Valentine says, standing in the frame of the Portal. “Is it as you remember it, Jonathan? Jessamine? Has nothing changed?” Jace’s expression softens into something longing, but I snarl at my uncle, determined to never go back. “You can still come home,” Valentine says. Those words make Jace’s smile disappear in the blink of an eye.

       “That's not my home,” he says. “That's not Jessa’s home, not Jak's either. This is our home now.”

       “Very well,” the elder Shadowhunter says. And then he takes a quick step back through the Portal so that he now stands in Idris. His lips curl up into an eerie smile. “Ah,” he says. “Home.” My brother stumbles right up to the edge of the Portal before stopping, free hand against the gilt frame of the mirror-turned-Portal, hesitating.

       “Jace, don't,” Clary pleads. “Don't go after him.”

       “But the Cup,” Jace murmurs instantly. My sword trembles violently in his hand.

       “Let the Clave get it!” the redhead exclaims. “Jace, please. If you go through that Portal, you might never come back. Valentine will kill you. You don't want to believe it, but he will.” 

       “Your sister is right,” my uncle agrees from the other side of the Portal. “Do you really think you can win this? Though you have a seraph blade and I am unarmed? Not only am I stronger than you, but I doubt you have it in you to kill me. And you will have to kill me, Jonathan, before I'll give the Cup to you.” Jace’s grip tightens on the hilt of Jehoel.

       “I can—” 

       “No you can't,” Valentine says, traces of amusement coloring his tone. The silvery-haired man reaches out through the Portal to seize Jace’s wrist, dragging it forwards until the tip of Jehoel touches his chest, right above his heart. “Do it, then,” Valentine goads. “Drive the blade in. Three inches—maybe four.” My uncle jerks the blade forwards, the tip of the sword slicing through the fabric of his shirt. All of a sudden, my brother wrenches his arm free of his father and staggers back with a gasp. 

       “As I thought,” Valentine says smugly. “Too softhearted.” My uncle swings his fist towards Jace in a sudden movement, but the blow never connects, the Portal shattering instead. Broken shards spill towards us, glass surging across the floor in a wave, a curiously beautiful waterfall of deadly silver shards. I sway, the constant use of my leg catching up to me as the numbness wears off, the pain surging back in full force. I let out a choked whimper of pain, pressing one hand to my forehead, the other to the nearest solid thing I can. It's wooden, maybe a chair.

       “Are you alright?” Luke asks, appearing next to Clary and Jace, seraph blade gone. 

       “We're fine,” the petite redhead replies. **I’m not** , I think dully “Alaric…?”

       “Is dead,” the werewolf answers shortly.

       “My father got away,” Jace says. “With the Cup. We delivered it right to him. I failed.” The dullness in his voice is slightly scary. I sway on my feet, lightheaded and in pain.

       “It's not your fault,” I hear Luke say. It's like he's speaking from the opposite end of a tunnel, though. Is that bad? It's probably bad. My legs give out and I spasm, broken glass cutting into my already-injured body. There's faint voices, and something connects with my head. Then I'm out, dead to the world.


	28. Epilogue

        _ **Two massive, feathered black wings sprout from her back, splayed out on either side as she sleeps. Orange hair frames her peaceful face, although her skin is still deathly pale. She look like some sort of bizarre angel, positively glowing in what I think is magic.**_

_**—Alexander Gideon Lightwood** _

* * *

       I groan when I wake up, head swimming. I blink sleepily for a moment—before it all comes rushing back and I sit bolt upright with a yelp, trying to twist around and see if I really do have wings. Laughter follows, then a warm hand pushes me back down.

       “What happened?” I demand before registering who I'm talking to. Turns out it's Alec and Jace, both looking worse for wear, a pair of crutches propped up beside Alec’s chair and a cast on his leg. Jace doesn't look much better; disheveled hair, rumpled shirt, several cuts and scrapes on his face and a blooming bruise poking out of his shirt. However, they're both looking at me with serious faces.

       “Shit,” I mumble. “What happened? Where's Jak? Where's Magnus? Fuck, what—”

       I get an answer to my previous question about my wings, because the black, feathered things snap out like they can sense my agitation, before settling back against the pillows that are currently propping me up. Jace smiles weakly, shaking his head.

       “No, Jess, it's not like that… it's… it was… Okay, we had to do it, else you'd die, and we couldn't ask your permission because you were dying, so we did it because Jak would have died and—” 

       I clear my throat.

       “What did you do?” I ask quietly. The two _parabatai_ look at the floor guiltily.

       “We… may have made you our _parabatai_ ,” Alec rushes out in a hurry. I gape at them.

       “YOU WHAT?” I shriek, not caring who hears me. Damn them. I want to chew out these two for their shitty decision. Jace is smiling slightly, despite the situation.

       “We bonded you to us for eternity, never again to part, blah, blah, blah and all that jazz.” I growl lowly, searching for something to throw. When I fail to find anything within reach, I look back up at the boys, arms crossed. A moment of silence passes. 

       “Where did you Mark me?” I finally ask. Alec meets my eyes hesitantly, and when I nod he reaches out slowly to touch my stomach, right above where I usually place my speak in tongues rune.

       “I put mine on your side,” Jace explains, pointing. “Right there.” I take a deep breath, calming myself.

       “Does anyone else know?” I ask. Jace shrugs out a half-assed answer.

       “Izzy, Jak, Clary, Luke and Magnus,” Alec supplies. I rub my eyes tiredly.

       “Alright. And what about you two? Do I Mark you as well, or is this all we can do?” Jace nods.

       “The only reason we were able to put two _parabatai_ Marks on you was because Jace and I drew in synch,” Alec explains. I nod in understanding.

       “So… we just hide this from everyone?” I ask. “And while we're on question time, how the hell did I get here and how the hell does a three-way _parabatai_ bond work? And who the hell knows about my wings?” Alec shifts, cast making a skittering sound as the raven-haired boy adjusts himself on his chair.

       “Luke’s entire pack knows, but I managed to get them to swear to secrecy. Iz, Jak, Magnus, Clary and Luke all know as well. Simon doesn't, so if he ever turns up again, be careful to avoid anything strange happening.” 

       “As for after you passed out, one of Luke’s packmates carried you with us to the Institute,” Jace explains. “We took you inside and went to the Infirmary. By then, Alec was healed and the warlock was looking after him with Jak. When Bane saw you, he had Jak put you on this cot and get everyone out. All we could see from under the door was a lot of lights. But it worked and he healed you enough for you to be in a stable condition. Apparently you're not entirely immune to Greater Demon poison.” I grunt.

       “No kidding.” Alec cracks a small smile. 

       “Anyways, your heart stopped for about five seconds. We thought we'd lost you. Worst five seconds of my life,” my brother continues. “After that it was a hit or miss situation; Magnus had found a fragment of Abbadon’s talon still embedded in your leg, so we had to get it out. Bane did it with his magic, although Jak assisted him throughout the whole ordeal. You weren't strong enough to go through the operation on your own in your state then, so Alec and I volunteered to lend you our strength. Permanently." I nod slowly, and then Alec stands on one foot, reaching for his crutches before standing up completely. I frown guiltily.

       “How long are you going to be out of commission?” I ask.

       “Not long,” my new _parabatai_ replies with a smile. “I'll be off of these and have my cast off before you know it, then I'm back in action.” 

       “Oh, no,” I say dryly, the smile on my face giving me away. “You seem to have been infected by a rare disease that scientists have named Jace.” My brother makes an indignant sound at that, but Alec just herds him off, a fond smile on his face.


End file.
